


Track List

by GhostHost



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Warnings are given per chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2018-06-07 11:00:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 31,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6800929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostHost/pseuds/GhostHost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My dumping ground for drabbles, short(er than normal) one-shots, and generally anything else that doesn't have a place. </p>
<p>Ch 18: When Primus informs you that your Decepticon Soulmate is the leader of a gestalt, you might try and see if retiring and offering yourself to Unicron as *his* Prime might be a better option.</p>
<p>Ch. 19 Whirl/Cyclonus/Tailgate, Dom/sub dynamic. Tailgate likes games and he likes teasing, but best of all, he likes making his mechs falter in public.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starscream/Wheeljack-Marks

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Track List, the place I put everything that doesn’t have a place! Drabbles, shorts, etc. I try to put oneshots that aren’t super long in here (the problem being of course, that all my oneshots keep being far too long. Bad plot bunnies.) I do individual warnings for each chapters, and give pairings and summaries and what not so as to not clog the tags. Getting Track List up and running was my reward for myself for getting through chapter six of SS, so I'm excited to finally get rid of all these little fics I have floating about.

Pairring: StarscreamxWheeljack

Universe: G1/IDW

Warnings: Nightmares, choking, panic attack and marks.

Summary: Starscream/Wheeljack. Starscream's not easy to recharge with, but he tries to make up for it, in his own ways. 

 

* * *

 

Marks 

Starscream’s engines roar. He’s up in an instant, faster than Wheeljack can react. His claws are out, hands transforming smoothly and they’re wrapped around the scientists throat before the sequence ends. Starscream’s optics are half-lit,  field crazed, and Wheeljack freezes sensing he’s not really there. Not yet anyway.

So he purposefully relaxes into the hold, even as Starscream’s claws rip into his throat. “Hey.” He manages, gently, when Starscream’s optics light a bit more. The seeker pauses, field uncertain-Wheeljack gently raises his own as an offering. Slowly, Starscream’s meshes with it and Wheeljack tries to soothe the pain there. The terrified, unending panic and desperate anxiety. Energon runs in rivets down his neck and he thinks  of the Ark, of his friends and fellow ‘Bots. Tries to convey the _safety_ he felt there.

Starscream releases him slowly, fingers easing up before letting go. Transforming back into blunt fingertips. Starscream looks at him, then at them, his servo’s beginning to shake. He looks away suddenly, with an audible hitch in his vent and Wheeljack let’s his engine rumble soothingly in response.

A louder hitch, the beginning of a sob is the response, and for a moment he thinks Starscream might bolt, but the seeker collapses on him instead. He grabs onto armor like a lifeline, face buried into ‘Jack’s shoulders.

‘Jack slowly pulls his hands up, telegraphing his movements. He let’s them come around Starscream, light enough that the seeker can break free, then lightly rubs his back when Starscream doesn’t reject him.

“Easy.” He murmurs, trying to think of what to say. ‘It’ll be alright’ is as insulting as it is a lie-Starscream clearly is a long ways a way from ‘alright.’ “You’re safe” is wrong for a similar reason-Starscream sure as shit doesn’t feel safe. So he goes with the next best thing he can think of,  whispering “I’m here, I’m with you.” into the red’ mechs audios. That gets a bigger sob and a tighter squeeze-Wheeljack repeats it like a mantra.

Something Starscream can cling to.

They stay like that until they both fall back into recharge, Starscream curled into Wheeljack.

In the morning, Starscream reacts as he always does when embarrassed; he’s meaner than usual. ‘Jack’s not insulted, it’s a ‘Con thing. He knows it is. You don’t show weakness and when you do, you make up for it. One of their greater cultural divides-he wonders how long it will take for it to vanish. A few years? A few thousand years? An entire generation?

Well, he hoped to find out at least.

It helps that Starscream apologizes in his own way too.

“Give me your neck.” The smaller mech demands, appearing in his lab after avoiding him for most the day with a tub of Primus knew what in his hands. Wheeljack considers refusing for a moment, until he catches sight of Starscream’s optics. They’re not teasing or demanding, squinted or rolling.

They’re  fixated on the deep scratches in his neck.

So Wheeljack consents, sitting down and letting Starscream fuss over him, under the guise of how _incredibly_ insulting it would be to the seeker if he ran around with a mech “so obviously scratched up!”

He stares into a mirror at the end, admiring Starscream’s work because amazingly, the seeker’s pretty good. He gives a complement to it, on erasing the scratches completely, pit even on his paintwork and the seeker puffs up proudly, even if he waves off such “lowly” praise.

In the corner of his optics Wheeljack can see Starscream staring, optics more concerned than he let’s on, and he smiles knowing he’s cared for, even if it's in Starscream’s unique way.

 


	2. Grimlock, Fulcrum-Palms

 

Characters: Grimlock, Fulcrum. Scavenger Crew

Universe: IDW

Warnings Grimlock’s poor mental state, violence, panic attacks.

Summary: These are a couple of ‘snapshots’ of Grimlock and Fulcrum-obviously written before (spoilers) it was revealed Misfire’s Grimlock’s main caretaker. They can be read as either pre slash or friendship. 

 

* * *

 

Palm of your Hand

 

There are two things Grimlock knows for sure.

 His processor is very, very damaged.

 And the ‘Con named Fulcrum is 100% trustworthy.

 He doesn’t know how he’s arrived to either conclusion, or when, or the last time he was really fully functioning. Even functioning to the level he’s at now-with his HUD scrolling through hundreds of errors and bugs and Primus knows what else. So he clings to what he does know, because to him they’re instinctive facts and he’s always followed his instincts.

 It’s all he’s got left.

 Sometimes this panics him-makes him restless. Sometimes he’s more of himself than he’s not, more than aware he’s on a Decepticon ship. An enemy ship. But not a prisoner. Not that he can tell anyway. This lack of knowing, the lack of _remembering_ always gets to him. His frustrations turn to anger quickly but he’s never left alone to rage. Fulcrum always appears if he isn’t there already, with calm, soothing words.

 No one has tried to soothe him in his life and damage or not, the irony isn’t lost on him that it’s a K-Class Con that’s the first. Weirder still-he has vague memories of Fulcrum helping him through his processor problems. Helping him heal. Playing memory games, giving quizzes, teaching with a calm voice and constant praise.

Grimlock doesn’t know why. He tries to guess his -captors?- intentions on the nights when he’s thinking clearly, but he always stops after a while. There’s no point. He knows he’s at their mercy. He knows there’s nothing he can do about it-he’s not in a position to fix himself or even call for help. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know what’s going on-the state of the war. Half the time he doesn’t remember himself-the things that makes him who he is. Or was, anyway.

 He does know that something-or one-has hurt Fulcrum. Badly. Physically and psychologically, in a way that left scars on the spark. He’s oddly tuned to the bombs field. He knows he pays attention to it, even when he’s not really himself. He knows Fulcrum is scared and exists in a near constant state of anxiety. He’s easily startled, easily frightened, and typically the first to run screaming when faced with a problem. In another life he would have called Fulcrum weak.

 In another life, Grimlock would have killed him.

 Now, he’s settled himself around the bomb in his alt mode, making promises he will never voice. Soothing that anxious field with his own. Broadcasting confidence, strength, his own protectiveness. Fulcrum buries closer, stroking Grimlocks nose with one hand and gripping armor hard with the other. His shaking has subsided now and he’s fading into recharge, as he tends to when he’s upset and using the dinobot as a large blanket. Grimlock watches his optics grow dim, then shifts his attention to the door, always watchful. He’s careful about who he lets around Fulcrum in this state-when the bombs at his most vulnerable. He knows Fulcrum is well loved by the crew (and knows just how much his own processor is damaged by the sheer fact that that concept isn’t mindblowing-Decepticons who care for each other? If he’d been undamaged-if he hadn’t seen it for himself, he’d never believe it.) but that they can be too much for him. Knows that he needs to step back when he’s overwhelmed, just as he knows Grimlock has turned into something of a safe person-or rather space-for him, in those times. In another life, Grimlock would have found that disgusting.

 In this one, he did all he could to encourage it.

 Some nights he wonders how he got here-if Fulcrum really is trying to help him instead of harm.  Some nights he wonders if it's all a ruse, if he’ll forever be with them, if he’ll ever be healed.

 Tonight he pushes his thoughts away. Tonight he focus on his friend, and on keeping him safe.

 

xXx

 

Fulcrum froze the second he saw you.

 “HI.” He says it quietly, optics widening-and you know he knows.

 Took him long enough to figure it out.

 Your injuries are getting better-mostly thanks to him. This time you surfaced-the real you, not the weird partial you that’s been possessing your body while you heal-for nearly three days earth time. You’ve kept quiet, same as the last few times you became aware. You know you're too damaged to do anything, not without gathering information. Which you’ve been doing, equally as quiet, but it's slow going, mostly because you keep forgetting the information you’ve gathered. Sometimes it frustrates you and you fall back into your rages and tantrums, fire and destruction, but he’s always there. Arms raised, voice calm, field desperately trying to soothe out the anger and hurt. He always knows part of it is hurt, how hurt you are at your own situation.

 You’re always amazed at how he can talk you down.

 “I brought you energon.” He says after a minute and you can tell he’s thinking about running. He’s always thinking about running. You’re gonna have to cut him off  before he does-you’ve gathered enough information to know he’s aware you're coming around. Healing.

 And that he hasn’t told anyone else about it.

 You’ve met the commander of this ship and weirdly enough, you think he’s a good mech. A fragging ‘Con, but a good mech. A decent commander (which you sure as hell weren’t, you think bitterly) and one who is mightily protective of his crew. ( _Such_ a weird trait for a Con.)

 The kind of mech who’d defend his crew to the point of preventing large, potentially fatal problems, such as the massive dinobot from the other side of the war suddenly regaining full processor power.

 You’re still defenseless, most of the time. Too trusting of this crew around you, too prone to defending to them. Listening to them.

 A trait you really hope is a side effect of your injuries, because you were never meant to take orders. Especially not from ‘Cons.

 Even if you kind of like them.

 “Thanks.” You say quietly, unable to keep the grumble out of your voice. Fulcrum has carefully placed the energon on the table while you were staring and you just as carefully pick it up. And then you carefully sit down, carefully sip at it while you look at him and think.

 The constant barrage of errors makes it hard, but you manage.

 You need to make yourself less of a threat. Establish what you know-that you won’t hurt Fulcrum. Not now. Likely not ever-a thought you really hate because you were never like that. You were never one to get this close. It frightens you, when you think about it hard enough, which makes you want to destroy something, and you brush all of that away before you act on it. You don’t need that.

 He doesn’t need that.

 Instead you stare at him, watch him cycle air far too fast. Watch him start to panic. You can’t help it-you quirk a grin. He see’s it and cycles faster.

 Your protectiveness kicks in-you won’t allow him to be scared of you, even if he should be. “Fulcrum.” You say and watch him flinch. You keep your voice low, even. Calm. “Sit.” You gesture to the seat opposite you.

 Fulcrum casts a way to obvious glance at the door behind him.

 So much for being careful.

 His armor starts to rattle against him and you suddenly know that he’s on his way to crashing himself. Next he’ll get so worked up he’ll overheat, will be so panicked he’ll force his vents to close and the combination is very unpleasant to watch. Not that you can recall doing so or where this information is coming from, just that it is. You try to think of what to say, to soothe.

 He’s good at soothing. You’re good at destroying.

 This isn’t your forte.

 Just as your mind dropped that piece of information, it drops another and you suddenly know just what to say. “Easy.” You say, trying to talk like he does when you’re in a rage. You’re failing, but you try anyway. You wait a beat, then add “You know if you land in the medbay again, Krok threatened to have Misfire babysit you.”

 That seemed to throw him off, at least long enough for his armor to not rattle quite so much. “What?” He said, voice shaky and off.

 You stare at him. He heard you. He’ll respond more fully in a minute.

 You watch as fear is temporarily forgotten in place of shock and outrage. “Why would Misfire have to babysit me!?”

 You shrug.

 “That’s ridiculous, I thought they banned him from the medbay! And I know what's bringing these crashes on, we’ve already discussed how to handle them! I’m handling them right now, I don’t need his help!

 You shrug again. “It’s what he said.” You say. Something in your voice tips him off-his optics are narrowing. He stalks forward, cowardice still missing and you know this is a fragile thing, his approaching you. His lack of fear.

 “You’re lying to me!” He shrieks suddenly, offended.

 You reward him with a smile.

 He drops into the chair opposite you with a huff. “Misfire babysitting me, honestly I babysit him more than anything. Fragging ridiculous idea.” He goes on for a while. You nod in the right places while you finish your energon. Finally he heaves a great sigh, an odd thing for a being who doesn’t have to breath to do, and stares at you.

 You wait for him, but he appears to be done. His optics are getting that look again-you know he’s re-evaluating how safe he is. Catching up to what he’s done, thinking instead of just reacting and doing. You know his fears have suddenly returned, now that he has time to think.

 So you say something.

 “It’s an odd day, when I’m the one talking you down.” You say and he suddenly gets it. All the things unspoken between you. Your stance on him. You watch his fears start to leave him.

 “What do you know?” He asks and you know what he means. How much do you remember? Are you really all there right now?

 “Not a whole fragging lot.” You snarl. You can’t help it, just as you can’t help the hand that falls to the table, fists clenched. You regret the movement as it makes Fulcrum jump. You glance away so you can’t see his fear return. You try to get yourself more under control.

 A touch on your hand startles you and you look back to him. He’s terrified, absolutely terrified, but he’s leaned over the table. Gently taken your hand. You look at him and then down at it. His hand gently gripping yours.

 You let out a cycle you didn’t know you were holding and slowly grip back. You both met optics-you can practically see the stress bleed out of his-and you know that at this point, you both think you’ll be okay.

 “It’s okay.” Fulcrum says, braving a small, shaky smile. “You’ll get there.”

 You duck your head, nod. Because in your core?

 You believe him.

  


xXx

 

You’re suddenly there, and you don’t know whats brought you out of your stupor.

 Not until Fulcrum screams anyway.

 He’s cornered-a quick glance shows they all are-by a number of mechs who are intent on doing nothing good. An abnormally large one’s got Fulcrum, raised high in the air, legs kicking. He’s hurt-badly, if the amount of energon he’s losing is anything to go by.

 Suddenly everything stops. Everyone looks at you.

 You realize it's because you’re roaring.

 You think as you charge into battle, that the mechs fighting against you might be Autobots. You see flashes of red here and there. For once you don’t care-because they’re hurting Fulcrum.

 No one hurts Fulcrum and lives, you tell yourself. Your fangs, your fire carry out that dark promise. Metal tears and shreds beneath you and you revel in it, feel yourself getting lost to the errors. You’re losing yourself , losing half your senses each time you come back fully online, but before you go you manage to transform and haul the leader up by his crumpled chest.

 “That,” You spit, pointing at Fulcrum, “is mine. You _don’t touch_ what’s _mine._ ”

 You both get lost in violence, the screams and eventual death. You’re nearly gone by the time it’s all over, clinging just long enough to check to make sure your bomb didn’t detonate. You make a note to yourself to ask him why he hasn’t later and vaguely hope you remember it the next time you come back.

 The last thing you here is Misfire, questioning if being claimed by a dinobot is _really_ a good thing.

 Fulcrum’s response starts with “Of course” And that’s all you needed to hear.

 You let go, let yourself sink, knowing you did your job.

 They’ll all live another day.


	3. Ratchet, Stunticons--Kicked Dogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this was a prompt response from LJ, but I can’t find the prompt and I save all of them so maybe not. I do have a prompt I’ve been meaning to fill for forever that involves Ratchet and Breakdown, so best I can figure this grew from there? Anyway this is a two parter that I lost motivation for. Part 1 was good to go though, and so I figured it was time to shoo it out the door

Pairing: None

Universe: G1, Shattered Glass, and hints of IDW

Warnings: Character Death (Motormasters, mentioned not shown) mental issues/disorders, mentions of abuse, freaky coding, ummm,  Ratchet basically adopts the Stunticons? And I suppose some people could construe this as Ratchet/the Stunticons, except it's not at all written that way because they’re written as younglings here and its more of an ‘they adopted him’ kind of thing? Yes.

Summary: Thrown into the Shattered Glass universe, Ratchet’s doing the best he can to survive-and take care of the youngling Decepticon Gestalt team that got tossed in with him. (Or, Ratchet adopts the Stunticons, minus Motermaster.)

* * *

 

Kicked Dogs 

 

When things go to hell,  people tend to cling to what’s familiar. In this case the world had literally gone to hell and the only thing familiar was the enemy. Ratchet didn’t particularly care. In his short time here, he had seen mass destruction, an oddly colored Optimus Prime _rip a mech in half_  and more carnage than most battles he had ever faced. Mechs were dying left and right and the ones that weren’t were running from him like was a phase sixer.  This world they had fallen in wasn’t anything like their own. That much was obvious, because all the mechs in it all seemed to be _batshit crazy._

So when he looked at the mechs who’d fallen in with him, he didn’t see the Stunticons.

No, all he saw was a bunch of young, scared mechs who had never witnessed a battle like this one. Young mechs who had watched the savage destruction of their leader only moments after they’d arrived.

Mechs who were reacting to it all very poorly. Breakdown, now only an arm's-length away from Ratchet, had yet to move since his gestalt leader had gone down.

So Ratchet did what his medic coding prompted him to do, and reached out to haul Breakdown by his back plating. The Stunticons, apparently, were thinking along the same lines because after letting loose an undignified squawk, Breakdown cowered from where he’d landed behind Ratchet’s legs. Dragstripe and Dead End moved to flank him, stepping backwards and closer than they had ever dared, their fear lancing through their EM fields like hot iron. Wildrider zoomed in tight circles around them. Ratchet couldn’t tell if that was because the mech was panicking or if that was a tactic being deployed to keep the new enemy at bay. After a moment he decided on both.

Breakdown was shaking hard enough to affect the mechs around him and Ratchet idly snapped at him for it.

The broken, staticy “Sorry!” that answered him made his spark clench but he couldn’t afford to freeze now. Medic he might have been, but Ratchet hadn’t survived this long by being a poor fighter.  After watching what the evil versions of his friends had done to Motormaster, Ratchet had to be on his A-game to survive.

Twenty earth minutes later and he wasn’t so sure they were going to make it. They’d been backed into a corner and there were so many of them-these twisted versions of the mechs he loved and lived for-and then their counterparts swooped in to save the day. Ratchet didn’t even try to process the optic-burning bright colors of the Decepticons he finally recognized, or the fact that they weren’t fighting their enemies but were pulling an obvious hit and run rescue operation. He just went with it, because that's what medics on battlefields did.

The stunticons went along with him and he thanked Primus they waited until they were safely on a base before making a fuss about it all.

 

xXx

In this world, the ‘Cons were the good guys. But they were more than that-they were moral. A touch naive- and that was just a weird thing to see on such familiar faceplates even if they were a different color- but they were _good_. And the ‘Bots, the mechs he knew, were evil. Beyond evil. Insanity seemed to seep into them with every vent-cycle. It shone through their optics, crackled through the edges of their field and after encountering them, Ratchet understood fully why this world’s ‘Cons were so wary of him.

In his world, his universe, Ratchet was infamous in both armies for being a smartass, having wicked aim and being the best surviving medic Cybertron had left.

He didn’t want to know what his counterpart was known for.

So he let them be wary. He tolerated how carefully they handled him and did his best to reign in his temper. It helped, that he had a handful of younglings hanging off him.

The Stunticons had taken a hit. They were barely handling the death of their leader, let alone the sudden change in scenery and sanity. Add to that the fact that Ratchet was positive none of them were entirely sane  to begin with and you had all the makings of a powder keg. One that was a match-strike away from exploding. This universe’s Decepticons had tried to welcome them, though they were cautious with how it was handled (apparently Cliffjumper-his Cliffjumper  from his universe-had made an appearance here not long ago, which paved the way.) But it didn’t take a psychologist to figure out that the Stunticons had been far more welcome than Ratchet had. He’d expected them to try and fit right in-or, to eventually grow bored of the “good” ‘Cons and cause chaos- but they didn’t.

Instead, they clung to Ratchet. For most of them it was a mental hold they had on the Autobot CMO. Dead End commed him constantly, and panicked if Ratchet wouldn’t answer. Drag Strip, for all his complaining, often refused to let Ratchet out of his sight, making excuses to follow him around. For the others, it was a physical clutch-a vice like grip here, Breakdown curling in his lap and refusing to move there. They hovered around him, often refused to leave him and let him boss them around. They made it clear they would submit to the Medic and in fact, seemed to prefer doing so.

The death of Motormaster had truly rattled them.

Neither ‘Bot nor ‘Con  of either universe quite understood all the intricacies of gestalt technology, of the bonds the gestalt created and how it ruled them. Frankly, from his own experiences and research he was amazed the Stunticons had survived the death of their head. That couldn’t have done anything good to their minds, Ratchet was sure, but without his tools he couldn’t get in there to see if it was anything he could fix. The mind itself was more Rung’s area than his, but he could fragging well try couldn’t he?!

Especially if it helped explain why they all felt the need to touch him all the damn time.

“Breakdown.” Ratchet said said, grasping at the last straws of his patience to keep the frustration out of his voice. “We’ve discussed this. I can’t work on getting us back home when you use me as a berth.”

“Sorry.” Breakdown replied, voice nearly a whisper and further muffled because his head was pressed against Ratchet’s arm. He pulled himself off Ratchet but didn’t leave. Not really. Nope, Breakdown just slide off his lap and onto the floor. An ungraceful puddle of youngling. One that was firmly pressed against his legs now. Ratchet vented loudly. He was unable to keep the annoyance out of his EM field, but he made sure it held acceptance as well. He wasn’t pushing Breakdown away and he did his best to convey that without actually saying it. The lamborghini was getting better- he had stopped flinching away every time Ratchet showed the slightest bit of irritation and seemed to be slowly accepting that grumpy, for lack of a better term, was a main trait of Ratchet’s personality. He was still mentally fragile and Ratchet worried about pushing him over the edge.

They both sat in silence, as Ratchet turned back to his  work.

“Thanks.” Breakdown said softly, after a few minutes.

Ratchet snorted. He hadn’t done anything but sit here. “For?”

“Putting up with me.” Breakdown tilted his head back. Locked tired optics with Ratchet’s own. Ratchet froze, kept his expression carefully neutral. He hadn’t been around them all for long, but he had picked up enough to know that this wasn’t something that happened often. This meant something to the younger mech-whether it was an indication of trust or something else Ratchet wasn’t sure. But he knew it had a meaning.

“Most mechs...don’t. And, and you do and I-” He paused before clearly forcing himself to continue. “I know how I am. So thanks.”

"Your brothers don’t do things like this for you?” Ratchet asked before he could stop himself. Gestalt bonds were usually extremely close, the mechs who held them even closer. The idea that they wouldn’t look after Breakdown was alarming.

Breakdown worried his lip plating with his denta. “No,” He finally said. “They do, just not-” His optics suddenly dropped, his voice following it. “-not like you do. You’re so calm you- you make it easier to think. They freak me out sometimes, make it worse but you,” Breakdown gave a small shrug. “you never do.”

There was that ache in his spark again. Ratchet reached out slowly, careful not to startle, and gently rubbed Breakdown’s helm. The lambo leaned into the touch. “Anything I can do for you, kid.” Ratchet said roughly, wishing desperately that the Decepticons in this universe would hurry up and trust him enough to let him near medical supplies. He felt useless hunting for the damn portal all day, when he could be helping mechs-particularly ones like Breakdown who so obviously had never received the medical care he should have. Processor errors like his could be caused from a number of reasons and letting it go, even just for a few more days, was daunting to Ratchet. Because Breakdown was suffering-and he couldn’t help.

He vaguely wondered when the Stunticons status as Decepticons had completely ceased to matter to him. After a minute, he told himself it didn’t matter.  They were all in it together now.

xXx

 

He could feel the stress building up in them. Ratchet was a medic. He could spot an impending meltdown from miles away. And this was going to be an epic one. The Stunticons, for all their clinging, refused to talk to him. In fact Wildrider was making a point of insulting him as much as possible, which Ratchet assumed was a poor cover for how scared he was.  Drag Strip alternated between trash talking everyone he came across and mechs from their own universe. He did it all with a polish rag in one hand and a can of wax he’d pulled from Primus knew where in the other. He tended to perch himself on the couch in the small rec room they’d essentially commandeered, but Ratchet had found that if he moved far enough away Drag Strip would casually follow. Never got close, oh no, not to a filthy Autobot! But they were both pretending he wasn’t  paranoid about letting Ratchet out of his sight. Dead End typically said nothing unless it was about how it was The End Of Times, but apparently, that was entirely normal behavior.

And then there was Breakdown.

Ratchet sighed, as said mech sat with his back pressed hard against Ratchet’s legs. He’d continuously booted Breakdown out of his lap _-he couldn’t work like that fraggit!_ -but Breakers refused to move any farther away. He had shaking fits, that often erupted into the disturbing frequencies he’d been so known for on the battlefield. Ratchet hadn’t at all been surprised to learn Breakdown’s notorious weapon was entirely an accident and often uncontrollable. They’d been working on calming techniques, all the while Ratchet desperately wishing one of the damn portals would appear. The Decepticons of this universe had overcome some of their weariness of him but they still restricted his movements and kept track of his location. Didn’t let him anywhere near anything remotely medical (or even sharp, really. Ratchet wasn’t blind to the fact that the Cons had limited his contact of anything that could be used as a weapon. It didn’t bother him. Rather it only made him aware that the Cons of this world not only tended to be naive, but also greatly lacked imagination.) and it was starting to get to him.

  
Because the longer he spent time with Breakdown, the more he realized just how much of a  mess he was. Couldn’t look him in the optics most the time-hell straight up couldn’t look at him, period!  Overly paranoid, panic ridden and extremely anxious. Drag Strip had confirmed that this was normal behavior, if worse at the moment due to stress. In fact, his siblings had made numerous comments that they felt Breakdown was handling the situation well considering. {“Fucking weird, actually.” Wildrider had said in a rare, calm moment. “Was expecting him to be like, comatose at this point.”) He absolutely refused to socialize with most of the alternate Decepticons and nearly passed out anytime one he recognized tried to talk to him. It had taken multiple meetings and attempts just to get him remotely alright with this weird, alternate Starscream. Though really, Ratchet couldn’t fault him for that. ‘Good’ Starscream was one of the most gentle mechs Ratchet had ever encountered, more than enough to give Skyfire a run for his money. It had weirded him out at first too. It had helped when Starscream seemed more afraid of him than vice versa though, and soon enough they had slowly built up enough trust to work together to try and locate a portal. They were now at a point where Breakdown no longer reacted visibly to his presence, and had even managed a small, shaky conversation.  

Ratchet often found himself wondering if this was Breakdown’s usual reaction to ‘their’ Starscream. If Breakdown had a reason he panicked when others looked at him. Casual inquiries didn’t go anywhere, with any of the Stunticons and Ratchet had quickly realized he was going to have to be extremely blunt to get answers. He figured he could build up a bit more trust before he did that. Learn the mechs around him a bit more.

Which wasn’t hard, when they were all hellbent on staying as close to him as possible. But that all had been before the tension had started to build among them. At this rate Ratchet knew he was going to have to intervene much sooner. He’d spent the better part of the day thinking it over while studying the broken gestalt.

He was going to have to sit them all down and have a talk before they did something rash. The trick was just how he was going to approach it. Ratchet had a lifetime of bringing up embarrassing topics to mechs, nothing personally affected him anymore-but the same years of experience meant he knew he could get a more favorable reaction if he approached it just right. That was what was going to take him a bit to puzzle out.

He decided to recharge on it, certain he’d get his answers in the morning.

Of course they had to ruin that plan.

Ratchet clenched his denta, desperately trying to hold onto his fraying temper. This was getting out of hand. He was absolutely buried under a pile of Stunticons-and whoever had just kicked him was _not helping._

He’d woken up to find not only Breakdown recharging with him (which had happened twice previously) but the rest of them as well. All crammed and piled onto his tiny birth. Well not all, Drag Strip had dragged in a chair and was draped across it but the mech was close enough for Ratchet to touch without ever getting up.

They’d broken in just to recharge with him.

Yup. Officially out of hand.

 

xXx

 

He’d done his best to keep his temper (which had lasted all of a klik) while waking them up. Which meant that currently, all Stunticons were pouting in the rest area that had been essentially given to them.

“Did he have that wrench on him this entire time!?” Wildrider hissed at Dead End, who was still trying to clear his audios. Drag Stripe was perched on the end of the couch they shared, glaring daggers at the couch across from them (were Ratchet sat.) Breakdown sat on the floor, in front of his brothers.

“What have we learned?” Ratchet snarled, not quite out of his mood.

“Boundaries and consent.” Chanted three of the four.  

The medic nodded, knowing that was as good as he was going to get.

“Now,” He started, leaning forward. “We’re going to talk about why you all felt the need to do that.”

Dead silence. All four were suddenly refusing to meet his optics. Ratchet crossed his arms. He waited a klik, giving them a chance, before casually adding; “I have another wrench here somewhere…”

Ah, yes. There was his reaction.

It quickly became obvious the Stunticons were talking amongst themselves, their faces giving them away. Their argument (it had to be one, Wildrider was beginning to gesture) dragged on, until finally Dead End had had enough. He sat straighter and addressed Ratchet, clearly cutting off his siblings.

“The gestalt coding wants a replacement head. It’s latched onto you as our best possible option.” Dead End said, in his normal, flat tone. “It is…” Here Dead End frowned a bit, looking for the glyphs he wanted. “upset? That we haven’t done anything to connect with you. Bond with you.” He clarified. His siblings looked unhappy with that,, but nodded anyway, showing their support.  

Ratchet looked like he’d been punched.

“I didn’t know it could do that. Find a replacement.” Ratchet said, trying to get his blown processor to work. Of all the reasons for their tension (He’d honestly thought it was going to be something like jealousy, they had petty arguments centering around it enough for Ratchet to identify it as a large, underlying issue) this was not something he’d anticipated. “Is it forcing you onto me?”

Wildrider snorted, something he had to have learned from human television. “Hey we didn’t know it could do it either. And no? Not forcing, its more like...wanting?” He struggled for words, looking to his brothers. They seemed to talk on comms for a moment, before Drag Strip took over (with a dramatic x-vent.)

“It’s like this.” He said, pretending to examine the tips of his fingers. “The coding wants you. It doesn’t have you. It’s trying to get you. ”

Well that didn’t answer anything. “Is the coding sentient?” Ratchet asked, trying for a different angle.  If it was, then the entire way they treated the Aerialbots and Protobots was going to have to be completely overhauled, especially medically. And the rest of what it meant-what it could mean...The possibilities were endless.

“The fuck does that mean?” Wildrider asked.

“He’s asking if the codings alive, you moron.” Drag Strip rolled his optics, only to very carefully still himself. “Right, Ratchet?” He said, sounding far less convinced.

Ratchet nodded. “Yes.” He paused and added. “I want to know how it's influencing you-how it's trying to “get me.”

“Oh.” Wildrider snorted again. “Well then no, its not alive. It doesn’t like, think. It’s just-” He fumbled again. “Coding.” He shrugged.

The others nodded. Coding, yes. That was it.

It didn’t make any sense to Ratchet. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Describe to me, in detail, exactly what the coding is doing. How it chose me.”

“It didn’t.” Breakdown practically whispered it, but they all heard him anyway. “It’s just trying to fill the hole.”

“Hole?” Ratchet asked, but he was barely heard over Wildrider and Drag Strips shouting.

“Idiot, don’t tell him that!” Wildrider growled, at the same time Drag Strip snarled something about staying quiet.

“It’s just putting into place protocols based on our own decisions.” Dead End said talking over his siblings, who proceeded to turn on him.  “It’s not alive or thinking. It’s just protocols that have been initiated after reacting to us, and our bonds.”

Ratchet thought about that-and their actions. (or rather, Wildrider and Drag Strips reactions.)  If the coding was a series of protocols, that could only be initiated once it sensed a change in the bond, that meant-  “So the coding didn’t decide on me then. You all did.” Ratchet clarified. “It reacted when you all decided you wanted to make me your new head.” They all went silent again, optics anywhere but on him. He took that as a yes.

Dead End had apparently elected himself offical speaker, because after a long moment he started again. “It’s not because you’re here, or because we knew you from before.” An odd stillness settled around his siblings, as if they were afraid to hear what he had to say-but desperately wanted him to be heard. “It’s how you treat us. It’s in how you lead. You’re powerful, Ratchet, but it's more to it than that. It’s...you.” He finished lamely.

And wasn’t that just weird to hear in Dead End’s gloom and doom, downcast voice.

“I don’t think I need to list all the reasons my joining your gestalt would be a terrible idea-” Ratchet said after a moment.

“Then let us list all the reasons you should.” Wildrider said, cutting him off. The mech surged to his feet, stalking around the couch as he talked. “You’re like the ancient rusty, Grandpa we never had, alright? You act like you don’t care-like you’d be the guy sitting on your porch yelling at kids to get off your lawn and shit-but you’d have a drawer full of candy and secretly put cash in kids wallets. You are a hard candy with a gooey interior. We like that, okay?!”He spun and pointed, now worked up, and Ratchet knew his anger was a cover for a lot of upset emotions, all of which he could read easily in the others EM field.

It would have had more of an emotional impact if Ratchet had understand anything that Wildrider had just said.  He knew the mech was considered insane, even by his own brethren, and he knew he loved earth culture (they all did, but Ratchet was positive that was more because they had been sparked on Earth. The Aerialbots and Protectobots were the exact same way, identifying better with Earth cultures than with Cybertronian ones.) but the emotions were definitely there. He looked to the others for some form of explanation.

“You get pissed at us, but you’ve never acted on it.” Drag Strip clarified.

“Acted on it how?” Ratchet had to ask. He thought he knew the answer-was sure he knew the answer-but he _had_ to ask.

“By beaten’ the crap out of us?” Wildrider said it like it was obvious. “You get mad but you don’t get like, evil villain hulk-smash-mad.”

For once, Ratchet understood the reference, and silently praised Primus he’d watched the entire Marvel movie collection with the Protectobots. In the back of his mind he decided that watching movies and shows with the Stunticons might be a good way to begin the process of educating them. It’d taken all of an earthen week to notice their distinct lack of any kind of education and once again, Ratchet wasn’t surprised. The reasons behind their general behavior was only getting clearer and Ratchet wondered how much they’d change just from being in an Autobot base. In the back of his mind, he hoped he could find out.

“We don’t have a problem with being Autobutts, if that’s your problem.” Wildrider whined, when it became clear that Ratchet wasn’t talking.

“You have no problems switching sides?” Ratchet said, unimpressed by the remark. Saying it was easier than doing it, after all.  “You won’t have any problems fighting Decepticons?”

“They hated us anyway.” Breakdown muttered.

Another thought struck Ratchet. “Do any of you know why we are at war? Why we’re fighting?” He asked, leaning forward. Trying to press the question, despite the change of topic.

“Fuck if I know. Honor? Buckethead said something like that when we were born.” Wildrider shrugged. “I wasn’t listenin’. Were you guys?”

As they all shook their heads no, Ratchet had a brief floundering moment where he wondered if he had informed the Autobot gestalts why they were fighting. But no, his processor drew up memories of discussing it at length with First Aid, and he knew Optimus would never allow ‘Bots to fight who truly did not wish too. Fragging hell.

“Why would you fight if you didn’t know or believe in what you were fighting for?” Ratchet tried to remain neutral, tried not to get angry at Megatron for treating soldiers like toys. It was something he was well known for. Getting mad over it now would be counter productive.

“Because Motormaster would’ve kicked our aft’s if we didn’t?” Wildrider dead panned.

“Because it was expected of us.” Drag Strip sneered, tone indicating he thought it was a stupid question.

“We’ll all die anyway. Doesn’t matter whether or not we fight.” Dead End muttered darkly.

Another long silence as Ratchet thought that over. He knew Motormaster was violent. More violent than a good portion of  ‘Cons. He knew the Stunticons didn’t have the best feelings regarding their deceased leader (and there was another bridge Ratchet realized he’d have to cross. Bonding with someone you hated, who hated you back and abused you on a consistent basis had to be extremely damaging. The Stunticons without Motormaster had been significantly less violent over all, but Ratchet felt it wasn’t an accurate comparison. Not yet-they were in a foreign universe. They weren’t comfortable enough to be themselves, not truly. He certainly wasn’t.) but had it really been bad enough that not actively hurting them caused this much of a reaction from them?

 _‘Of course it would.’_ Ratchet snorted, then chided himself for it.  They’d react like this to anyone who’d accept them like he had. He had just been the one to be there. And there was yet another reason he couldn’t bond with them-and he told them as much.

"You can say that all you want, but you’ll change your mind.” Drag Strip said. “No one can resist this for long.” Ratchet watched the younger mech gesture to himself and was reminded so strongly of Sunstreaker it knocked his vent cycle off long enough to delay a sarcastic response. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice.

Wildrider nodded frantically. “It’s a challenge, old man! And we don’t lose challenges!” He and Drag Strip stalked out of the room, Wildrider making an odd gesture at him that involved pointing at his optics and then pointing at Ratchet. Dead End belatedly followed, without a word. Breakdown stayed on the floor, staring down.

He waited until his siblings were out of the room, before softly asking; “Do you hate us?”

Ratchet twitched. “No, kid. This isn’t about hate, it’s about being smart.”

“You don’t hate us for being Decepticons then?” Breakdown asked, his voice ticking up in tiniest bit of hope.

There went that ache in his spark. Ratchet wondered if consistently feeling emotionally gutted was going to cause him permanent damage. “You didn’t have a choice in that.” He said softly.

Breakdown nodded jerkily. “If-if you don’t join up with us, then, are you going to leave us? When we get back?”

Aha. So that was what the issue was.

“No.” Ratchet said it so fast he startled himself, but knew it to be true. “No, I won’t leave you, when we get back. You wanna come with me and join the Autobots, then I’ll do all I can to get you there.”

Even if he had to fight the rest of Command himself. Because he couldn’t leave them behind, not after this. Not when he knew he could save them from a life where they weren’t cared for.

He had to bite back a groan at that, because on the heels of that thought came the realization that _he_ cared for them.

 _‘Wonderful. Just fragging wonderful. Good job Ratch.’_ He internally bitched, knowing he was safe to do so because he didn’t mean a word of it. _‘Looks like you got the bots a whole ‘nother gestalt team.’_


	4. Perceptor/Brainstorm-Puzzles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: BrainstormxPerceptor  
> Universe: IDW  
> Warnings: None! Though tell me if you want somethin’ tagged.  
> Summary: Perceptor’s not the best at the social sciences or anything at all related to ones emotional state, but a puzzles a puzzle, and he doesn’t let them go unsolved.

* * *

 

 

Puzzle Pieces

 

 

Shouting matches on the _ Lost Light  _ weren’t exactly something new, but the current participants were and as such, word got around fast about it.

It didn’t exactly help that the two bots screaming were two of the ships supposedly calmest crewmembers. 

“We are no longer at _ war _ , Perceptor!” 

Perceptor, who had been long done with this conversation, unconsciously gripped his pistol. He didn’t know when he had grabbed for it and later, he’d worry about the repercussions for pulling it on a fellow Autobot (war over or not) but not now.

Not now, when it was taking everything he had in him to remain calm and not shoot Blaster’s face clean off. 

“I realize that you are a tad slow and that is why it is taking so long for this to sink in, so please allow me to repeat myself, once more, in hopes that this time is successful.” Calm of course, didn’t have to mean his words-or his processor. His original weapons. Weapons even that idiotic loudmouth couldn’t win against. “What I do with-and to- my body is none of your business, nor anyone else's.  There is nothing you can do to convince me to change. Just as there is nothing I can do to get through your thick plating how  _ horribly  _ incorrect you are.” He cycled air, but continued before Blaster could speak.  “Your so-called defilement is for mechs ruined by the sad ideals of the Functionalists. It is a pity that though they are long dead,  _ you  _ still remain under their rule.” 

Blasters optics flashed. His mouth opened, no doubt to yell more-but Perceptor had had enough. He’d been ambushed in the hall and half of the conversation had taken place while walking. He’d immediately changed course for the labs upon realizing Blasters intentions-they were closer than his habsuit. He’d been determined not to let Blaster get an emotional response out of him and he was rather upset with himself that he’d failed.  He hadn’t even made it to his own lab before he lost his temper. 

Thankfully this wasn’t a problem, because Brainstorm’s lab was right there. 

For reasons Perceptor would likely never know, the jet had given Perceptor the codes and he used them automatically. It wasn’t as though Blaster would know whose lab it was.

Thankfully the communications mech didn’t try to follow him as Perceptor stormed in, slamming the door closed behind him. He sent the commands to the locks just in case-relaxing immediately when he heard them engage. All lab doors were standard blast doors and the immediate silence did wonders for Perceptors temperament. 

He started to move after a moment, pacing the tension away. Physically trying to destress himself. He focused on the items Brainstorm had strewn about (and the familiarity of the room itself. Though Perceptor would never, ever admit it, the room was technically organized. In a chaotic and uncanny way that looked horrific but once the system was learned, was beneficial in finding items. Unlike Wheeljack’s lab, Brainstorm actually knew where all of his things were.) 

After his 18th lap, Perceptor pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. He pulled himself to the computer and signed himself in, accessing a cooperative project between himself and Brainstorm. He fell into a routine, determined to work himself out of his negativity. 

It was the routine perhaps, that caused him to realize something was off. Perceptor was determined to ignore it. His emotions had hijacked him enough for today. He didn’t want to feel anything at all at this point. 

Except he did feel something, that was the entire problem.

It took him a moment, as frazzled as he was, to realize the weirdness was coming from the fact he felt _ safe _ . Which certainly shouldn’t have been weird at all, he had gotten away from Blaster and he had always felt at home in a lab. 

_ ‘Well no. _ ’ He corrected himself immediately. ‘ _ You always felt at home in  _ your _ lab.’  _ And nevermind how most of that safety had been stripped from him when he’d been left for dead. How he’d never truly felt safe, unless his guns were on him and his lab’s precautions and safety measures were armed. 

_ Ah. _

_ So that was it then _

This wasn’t his lab. He shouldn’t have felt safe, not when it had taken him so long to settle into his own lab. Not when his fingers itched to hold his guns. So why did he? Why hadn’t he left the moment he knew Blaster was no longer lurking outside the door? Why not go to his own lab, where he should have felt safer? 

_ ‘You have been spending a decent amount of time here.’  _ He reminded himself. Not that that had ever helped him previously, or given any kind of illusion of safety. Furthermore, he had been spending more time here than usual. More time than he really needed to. 

When had  _ that  _ happened?

A memory flashed, the recall triggered by his thoughts. 

_ “Hey, hey don’t dis the workspace! You won’t let me work in yours so you’ll have to do with mine! Besides,” Brainstorm nudged him, giving a wink, “I have better stuff anyways. As the best I only work with the best! Which of course,” Brainstorm clapped a hand on his shoulder this time, “includes you. You’re welcome.”  _

Right of course-he had refused to allow Brainstorm in his lab. Too many “accidental” explosions. 

That didn’t explain why he’d been in here so often, lately. Of all the projects he was working on with the jet, only two were actually related to the Lost Light. The rest were just-pleasure projects.  How had Brainstorm gotten him to agree to aiding with so many? 

_ “I need supervision, remember?” Brainstorm told him, from the door. He knew better than to step foot in Preceptor's lab without express permission. The last vat of acid had insured that. “And who’s better to supervise than you? Besides,” the smile on the jet was downright devious and Perceptor knew it didn’t bode well for the rest of the crew, “you’ll enjoy this one.”  _

And damn him, he had. 

He’d enjoyed the next one, too. 

But that shouldn’t have reflected on his own emotional state. Especially now, when his psyche had taken such a heavy hit? 

It was a puzzle now, and while he had never been the best at deciphering the social sciences Perceptor was determined to solve it. So determined, in fact, he sat in the chair, completely unfocused on it long enough to completely lose track of time. 

Long enough to lose a significant amount of time, too. 

Outside noise, loud enough to come through the door, finally shook him out of his reverie. The door clicked, logs disengaging, as  Brainstorm trotting in past it. He smirked when he saw Perceptor and made a few comments about being an ‘eager beaver.’ 

“You’ve been spending too much time in Swerves.” Perceptor said, more on autopilot than anything. He stared at Brainstorm, too wrapped up in his own thoughts. His processor was working hard and he had that feeling-the feeling he got whenever he was close to finishing a project or when something came out far better than expected. That feeling when he almost had the answer. Or rather, had the answer, he just had to get his mind to catch up and see it. 

Brianstorm brushed off the comment, practically dancing around him. He talked as he moved, wings twitching and hands gesturing.  Perceptor watched him without seeing him. Not really. He wasn’t paying attention. His thoughts pulled him along faster, urging him to _ get it.  _

Eventually Brainstorm’s babbling trailed off as he took another look at Perceptor. The microscope didn’t notice, not until Brainstorm was suddenly in his face.

“You alright?” The jet asked. 

Perceptor blinked, the concern in his voice shaking him out of his stupor. “I-yes of course.” He said finally. Brainstorm’s optics narrowed. 

Perceptor stared at him, face carefully arranged into something blank and unreadable. He’d had a lifetime of practice in how to successfully hide his emotions and even as strung out as he felt, even as his processor seemed determined to drag him down an odd path of introspection, he could still school his own field and face. 

The odd thing was that Brainstorm wasn’t buying it. 

“Rewind said he thought he heard Blaster yelling at you in the hall.” Brainstorm said carefully, still entirely too close for comfort. 

“Rewind is seeing gossip where there is none. Blaster simply over excited himself. He was a celebrity-they are prone to dramatics.” It wouldn’t be the first time someone had witnessed one of his and Blaster’s altercations-but why had Rewind told Brainstorm? Was he simply told in passing? Likely-Perceptor knew the little mech was what the humans referred to as a ‘serial offender’ when it came to gossip. Had Brainstorm rushed to his lab to-to check on him?

Perceptor stared hard at the mech before him, searching yellow optics. 

No, no. Brainstorm was likely already on his way. 

That was logical.

That was what made sense. 

“Alright.” Finally Brainstorm got out of his space, stepping back and waving to his opened cabinet of chemicals. “But you just say the word, and we can cook up something nasty for him if he is.” 

Did that mean he did not believe that Perceptor was alright? Was this supposed to be a show of support irregardless? Or was this just Brainstorm leaping at a chance to cause chaos? Primus, he hated social interactions! 

“That is completely unnecessary, and likely to get us both thrown in the brig.”

“Aw, don’t worry, Percy! It’ll just be me in the brig at most, I promise!” And by Primus, the damned jet winked at him. 

“Please refrain either way.” Perceptor said. Brainstorm just laughed at him. 

When had Brainstorm started calling him Percy? 

When had he started enjoying that? 

Friendship had always been hard for him. Social interactions were far more difficult than any kind of science he had ever faced. Even more so now, when he had taken up his guns. His sniper rifle. When he switched from non-combative to the full on Wreck n’ Rule lifestyle. 

He stared at Brainstorms back for a long time-long enough to Brainstorm to tease him about it. 

“You gonna come help me out here or are you gonna just keep staring? Not that I blame you of course, watching brilliance take hold must be rather distracting-” 

Perceptor shook his head, trying to clear it. He got up to join Brainstorm, thinking movement and a little distraction was exactly what he needed, when it all fell into place. He stopped dead, halfway to the jet, his uncovered optic wide. How could he not seen it before? How had he not  _ noticed?  _

Because it wasn’t just the lab that was a safe place for Perceptor.

It was Brainstorm, himself. 

The thought brought him equal amounts of horror and comfort, and the very strange urge to bury his head in his fellow scientists neck. 


	5. Drift, Rodimus--Stopgap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Drift and Rodimus
> 
> Universe: IDW 
> 
> Pairing: You can see this as Drift/Rodimus if you like, or simply them as good friends. 
> 
> Warnings: Blood loss/wounds, physically abusive situation. 
> 
> Summary: Rodimus doesn't always know how to be a good friend, but he does the best he can. Drift can't erase his past or years of his own reactions, but he needs to learn to bridge the gaps.

Lie, lie to my face,  
Tell me it ain't no thing,  
That's what I wanna hear.  
Take, a lie to the grave,  
That's what an old friend told me,  
Look at what it did for him.

  
The truth hurts so bad, wouldn't you say?  
So why tell it?  
If ignorance is bliss,  
Then I'm in heaven now.  
-  
3’s and 7’s  
Queens of the Stone Age

 

* * *

 

Drift growled, giving a look could only be described as feral.

He was furious-Wing had tried so hard to remove him from this part of him and here Rodimus was, goading it out.

His Captain had a haughty look on his face-insults falling from his tongue in rapid succession. He’d pushed, prodded, and all but forced Drift into the sparring room, and was now attempting to do the same to get a reaction out of him. To get into a fight. 

Drift had been having a pit-slagged day-if not week-and this?

This was not helping.

He didn’t know what had gotten into his best friend but he was toeing the line, more than any mech had dared to in a long, long time. Not even Kup was this dumb, not when Drift was clearly as bad off mentally as he had been today.

“What’s the matter? Too scared?” Rodimus taunted and as stupid and juvenile as it was, it was the final pull on Drift’s dwindling sell control.

Rodimus wanted Deadlock?

Fine. He’d get Deadlock.

Drift attacked, pouring his anger into liquid movements. He expected Rodimus to jerk back-had looked to relish the surprise on the Captain’s face but instead found an intense focus. One that was quickly covered by a goofy grin and a yelled challenge when Rodimus realized Drift was looking.

“Come on! Lemme see what you’ve got!” Rodimus yelled.

Drift showed him.

It was dumb, this was all dumb, and by the time Drift had come back into himself he was horrified at the damage he had done.

To his Captain. To his best friend.

To Rodimus.

Roddy was on his back, vents wheezing and energon running down his face in rivets. There was a multitude of wounds, ruining the sport car’s fiery finish with streaks of smeared purple. Drift’s sword-not his Great Sword, thank Primus, hung heavy in his hand and he dropped it. It clattered to the floor, a puddle of purple beginning to pool as the energon on it leaked downwards.  

“Primus-Roddy I...Primus.” He whispered but Rodimus just waved at him from the floor.

"Alright, fine, you win. Just this once though!” Rodimus wheezed, trying to smile around the cuts in his face.

“I-I didn’t mean-I”

‘Eh, you’re fine.” He dropped his own sword, raising a hand to block a gaping wound in his side. Energon seeped from it, trying to puddle on the floor.

Drift watched it, horrified.

“This isn’t fine!” He protested, taking a step forward, wanting to help, only to remember that he had caused this. He had done this. He froze instead, lines turning to ice.

Rodimus raised the hand-now smattered purple-to his face and grimaced. “I don’t remember telling you you could get to decide what was or was not fine. As Captain I’m telling-no ordering you, to know that this is fine.” He wiped the hand on the matt, a disgusted look on his face.

The swipe left a purple stain, energon matting to the floor and Drift’s engine right about stalled. “That isn’t how things work!” He said, unable to look away.

What had he _done?!_

“Maybe not for you, but it's how they work for me.” Rodimus finally sat up, taking in the damage and apparently finding it acceptable. He leaned forward, hands draped on his knees, to look up at Drift. “You feel better? You were lookin a little...Decepticonish there, for a minute.”

“Rodimus I hurt you.” It was said in a near whisper, Drift’s face stricken.

“Well yeah, but I hurt you too so we’re even.” Rodimus made a short gesture, indicating the cuts and dents on Drift’s own body.

He didn’t have to look to see they weren’t nearly as bad as his best friends-they were mostly normal sparring wounds. The stuff you gave that was in no way meant to be fatal.

Rodimus had held back.

Drift hadn’t.

“Primus.” He said again, the horror and guilt lapping at him in waves.

Rodimus gave a signature smirk. “Mmm nope, just me.” His field thrummed...happily? Drift teeked it again, searching and found not only was his best friend happy but satisfied, in a way that he recognized all too well.

Another wave of horror descended when Drift suddenly connected the reason as to why.

“You did that on purpose.” He said quietly, optics wide. “You-you wanted me to attack you.”

“Well not exactly,” Rodimus shrugged. “I mean yeah I knew that was gonna be the outcome, but like-look. You get like this sometimes, right?” He shot Drift a heavier look.  “You keep blocking all that shit in Drift, and you’re gonna burst and hurt someone and actually regret it instead of just me. You gotta you know, accept all sides of you n’ slag.”

“Rodimus I regret hurting you!”

“Well don’t.” Rodimus said, as if that was all it would take.

Drift couldn’t believe this. Of all the stupid plans!

“You are the dumbest mech on this planet.” He said, unsure if he wanted to strangle Rodimus or hug him.

The smug smile widened. “And your best friend, so what does that say about you?” He said, and yeah, he was definitely satisfied.

The idiocy of it all briefly snapped Drift out of it, and he responded as he normally would.

“That I’m the second dumbest.” Drift said with a mock sigh and Rodimus laughed. Drift was immediately horrified all over again-that he was making light of such a situation-! But Rodimus simply rocked himself to his feet, stretching once he had stood up.

“Come on mech. You at least feel better now?” He said. The stretch was exaggerated, and Drift knew it was mostly for him. His Captain was trying to show that the wounds didn’t bother him, or his range of movement. Rodimus was known to push himself though, even if not many recognized it.

Rodimus stood there, waiting patiently for an answer and knowing he wasn’t going to get one until Drift was satisfied he hadn’t caused any permanent damage.

The wounds weren’t as bad as Drift had thought to begin with, but they weren’t light sparring wounds either and he worried his lip, trying to both reign himself in and berate himself for what a horrible person he was.

“We’re going to have to get you to Ratchet.” He said finally. Ratchet would be disappointed in him, once he learned how Rodimus had received his injuries, but that disappoint would serve Drift well as another reminder of why he could never lose control.  

Rodimus shot him a look of pure horror. “And get chewed out for sparring too hard? Pit no!”

“You can’t stay like this!” Drift protested immediately. He still wasn’t over this-over what he’d done. Wouldn’t be for a long time.

H’e d lost control-and his best friend had paid for it. How far really, was he from his past if he broke this easily? How could he ever accomplish what Wing had tried so hard to teach him if a little bit of normal, spacefaring politics got him this riled?

Rodimus just snorted  at him.

“I can. And I will.” But if it makes you feel better you can comm Magnus.”

Drift shook his helm. “He’s just going to comm Ratchet.”

“You’d be surprised. Plus he’ll let you cuddle me while he fixes me up.”

“Is that what you want? Cuddles?” Drift tried to make it sound light, joking, tried to match Rodimus calm and teasing tone but he couldn’t quite do it. His vocalizer was scratchy, the emotions he was trying to shove down starting to bubble up.

Rodimus saw them, as he saw all the things Drift tried to hide, and came forward. He threw his arms around the speedster and pretended not to see Drift’s flinch. “Always.” He said happily, letting his field-full of understanding-seep over them. “It’s all I need in life.”

Drift ever so slowly leaned into the gesture, moving as though any touch he gave might hurt. Rodimus rolled his optics at him but let him pick his own pace-this, how he reacted after, was just as important as their fight.

“Okay.” The mech said softly after a moment, and Rodimus grinned, triumphant.

So the entire situation wasn’t exactly okay. What was, anymore? They were all fucked up. Drift was just a little worse than others-and beyond that, trying to fit himself into boxes he wasn’t meant for.

The two of them wouldn’t be healthy for a long time, not with what they had gone through. Not with the war. But Rodimus figured he’d try where it counted and maybe, the two of them would live through it all at least a little bit sane.

It was all he could ask for, in the end.  
A friend and a touch of sanity.


	6. Tumblr Shorts 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some stuff I posted on Tumblr-they're all pretty short so I combined them into one.

 

SB 1; Rung, Whirl. Have a cute little Rung and Whirl moment from a fic I dropped. This was supposed to take place near the beginning of the Lost Light’s journey, when Rung hadn’t worked a lot with Whirl face to face-and when Rung was super pissed off at a few mechs.

 

“Whirl, can I ask a favor of you?”

“‘Sure  _ thaaang, _ eyebrows. Hit me.”

Rung turned to face Whirl. He still had his glasses in his hands, rubbing small circles on the side of them with his thumb. Blue optics burned into Whirl’s singular yellow. “I do not, as a rule, ever condone violence.”

“Yeah I got that-”

Rung held up a hand. “Violence is not a solution. It is not an answer. It is needless more often than not and it leaves more wounds than anyone truly realizes. I would know, more than many. I deal with those wounds daily. And revenge is even worse.”

“This sounds an awful lot like there’s a but coming, is there a but coming? And not a butt like an aft but like an exception to the rules?” Whirl leered at him and oh yes, the rotary was excited indeed.

“But,” Rung continued, and a small smile flickered onto his face as Whirl cheered, “sometimes a little bit of revenge, if achieved in a proper way that does not do significant damage, can be an excellent medication. Not often and only when used playfully, and certainly not-”

“ _ Rung _ , stop already, Primus  I get it!” Whirl groaned dramatically. “Revenge is a bad, don’t kill people, whatever, now what do you want me to do!?”

Rung let his smile get a little bigger, let a bit of the fondness he had for Whirl seep into his field. Whirl typically irritated, annoyed, and at times even scared Rung, but one didn’t spend so much effort on a mech without growing a bit of affection for them. And Whirl was so starved of that fondness, of that friendliness, that his own reaction was often enough for Rung to try and do it as often as he could.  “Behind Swerves bar, there is a set of shelves that house his best high grade. Among them is a large bottle of an old Iconian high grade, called Foam Flume. While primarily a drink, Foam Flume has other properties to it and when hit with something at the right temperature, it has a tendency to expand rapidly-”

“Into giant fragging bubbles! I didn’t even notice!” Whirl finished, blades now rattling in excitement.

“Yes. So the next time you get into a brawl at Swerves, if you could be so kind as to hit that bottle, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Whirl cackled, doing a bouncy jig on spindly legs. “Frag yes. Frag yes, oh man eyebrows you have made me the happiest mech! And like half of it is purely because you want to do it ‘cause let’s face it you are such a boring old lame guy  no one would ever expect it from you!”

“I,” Rung said, “am not a boring old lame guy.” 

“You are, but it’s okay.” Whirl patted him gently on the back, the movement at odds with rest of him-which was moving almost manically in joy. “You stick with me, and we’ll fix that right quick!”

 

 

 

SB 2 Springer/Kup, a rejected part of the fic I did for the TF summer gift exchange. IDW Universe. 

 

Prowl’s words were coming out of Kups mouth.

Springer had known, almost immediately that something was off. He’d foolishly thought it had to do with Kup’s rebuild-or even his own mental scars. Kup was tougher than anybody Springer had encountered in his life but he wasn’t a god. He wasn’t immune to the emotional scarring and trauma that they all had-more so, because of the planet he’d been stranded on. Because of what Springer had done. Kup might have been able to take big hits like the death of friends, the death of an entire crew, and survive it, but it the effects didn’t skip past him.

They just weren’t obvious.

But this? He should have spotted this. Known it for the different thing it was. Prowl could never pass as his mentor, and certainly not in front of Springer. Not when they had been constants in each others lives for longer than most mechs lived these days. Not when their training sessions had evolved into regular sparring rounds. Not when Springer actively sought the old codger out, making sure he got his energon with the additives it was supposed to have in it, and when Kup returned the favor by literally chasing Springer to his hab suit at  to make sure the triple changer recharged when he went too long without doing so.

But it’d been a long time since all that. Springer had hovered, more than he would care to admit when Kup had come back online, but it didn’t take a medic to know things had changed. How much they changed no one knew, because the mechs he’d sent down to retrieve Kup, the lives he had sacrificed was his burden to bare. Not Kups. Never Kups.

And yet Kup thought otherwise.

Kup was mad at him. He knew this. Had known this for a while. Kup was avoiding him like the plague, and every excuse he gave was too good for Springer to get around. They had distanced themselves and that was probably for the better but it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

Kup did not want to talk to him, Springer got that. He was mad at what Springer had done and he couldn’t blame him. Had their positions been reversed he’d be just as furious. But fury didn’t mean Kup could blame himself, could remove it from the person it should be on and Springer was determined to take it. It was his guilt to carry and no one else's. Kup had not made those decisions, had not made the decision to be rebuilt and Springer had known that was going to be a point of contempt too. He hadn’t cared.

_ “Which is wrong, of course. This entire problem isn’t that you cared, it’s that you cared too much. About someone you shouldn’t be having those feelings for.” _ He knew Kups take on romance in war. He knew Kups opinions on mechs getting too attached to one another just as friends. He knew Kups opinion on everything, for that matter and that’s where  _ that  _ particular problem had begin with. 

 

Including the fact that the voice coming out of Kup’s mouth, though it sounded like him,  _ definitely wasn’t. _

“Prowl, what did you do?”

His words sounded possessive and they shouldn’t, but he couldn’t care. At this point it his feelings weren’t even secret anymore. They were a thing people pretend not to know about and cursed him for when his back was turned.

It didn't matter.

Everyone knew now the lengths he'd go to keep the old mech safe. Everyone knew that there were lines you didn't cross with Springer and fragging around with Kup, after all he'd done to get him back, was definitely one of them.

Prowl could predict a number of things with that processor of his but the burning possessiveness that lit Springer's optics weren't one of them and it was then that the true danger let itself be known. 

Emotions were always the hardest things to account for.

 

Sb 3; Same thing as above, a rejected piece of a Kup/Springer fic I did for the TF exhange. 

“You’ve got too many burdens on yourself kid, but you’re the one that added this one.”

“I-what burden?” Springer said, not quite tracking the conversation.

Kup ignored him. If he didn’t finish now he never would, and they’d already had too many chances as it was. “I think it’s time you stopped carrying it alone.”

“Kup?” Springer questioned, slowly.

“I think we owe it to them. The ones you sent down. The ones I killed.” His intake wanted to constrict, tighten at the thought but Kup brutally shoved it all aside. “We owe it to them, to make something out of this. Even if it doesn’t work. Because people already got hurt for it. People already died for it.”  And that was the worst possible outcome-an outcome that had seen reality. “We’ve got nothing to lose now.”

“Kup.” It was said more softly now. Springer caught on quick, he always had. It’s what Kup liked about him. He’d taught a good majority of the leaders in this army, and a larger majority of the everyday nobodies, and he’d never quite had anybody like Springer. Sharp look in his optic, eager smile, a damn good leader from day one.

Sometimes you had to beat things into people before they got it, but not Springer. Never Springer. Kid had a knack for what he needed to do.

Except, apparently, this.

But then, Kup wasn’t exactly a shining example of stepping forward and doing what needed to be done either, was he?

He held out a hand, palm flat. Springer looked at it, optics drawing a slow line from his optics to the tips of his servos.

“It’s now or never-and I won’t be offering this again.” Not to Springer, or to anyone else. A part of Kup was still convinced he was fragged in the head-more so than usual, the kind caused by physical damage. Deep down he knew that wasn’t the truth. That this, awkward fumbling presence was, and Primus help him it’d been centuries since he’d been this off with another mech.

Only Springer could bring that out in him. He’d denied it for too long-and look where it’d gotten them. Might as well enjoy the fruits of their mutual destruction.

Movement-and then weight as Springer laid his hand on top of Kup’s, servo to servo.

“Then let’s make the most of it.” Springer said. He intertwined their hands.

Kup clasped back-unsure of how to go on from here but knowing he’d figure it out.

Neither he nor Springer we're much for sentimentality or romance, but something in him wanted to make this moment special. As much as it felt like giving in, like finally bowing to some of his demons.

He shouldn’t have been allowed to be happy, not after what he’d done-but Springer had dug this pit for them.

Might as well lie in it for a little while.

 

 


	7. Tailgate/Whirl/Cyclonus-Chronic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is terribly un-edited, my apologies. 
> 
> I always kinda headcannoned Whirl as someone who’d secretly love to be bossed around. Like it takes you for-fucking-ever to get there trust wise, but once you have it, well. He likes to please. I also like to headcannon that his empurata causes him chronic headaches as well as other aches and just other bad shit since it was a major surgery that likely wasn’t properly cared for (f they even informed Whirl of how to care for it) afterwards. Honestly I headcannon a lot of things about him haha.

Characters: Tailgate, Whirl, Cyclonus  
Universe: IDW  
Pairings; Tailgate/Whirl/Cyclonus  
Warnings; Chronic pain, the slightest hint/bit of bondage, mentions of physical abuse and hints of medical abuse.  
Summary; Whirl gets chronic headaches, a leftover from his empurata. Tailgate and Cyclonus step in to help.

* * *

 

Chronic

 

It wasn’t the first time Tailgate had heard complaints about Whirl, but it was the sixth time in three days he’d heard someone complain about Whirl not showing up. And while Tailgate didn’t profess to truly know the ‘Copter, he knew enough to realize how weird that was.  

Whirl might cut out on a duty shift, or even a day of it, but three? That was a little...odd.

No one cared when he pointed it out, but he was kinda used to being brushed off. Especially when it came to things like this. People thought he was naive. That was fine-’cause he was, really. He knew it. He didn’t have the war experience most others had and his determination to stay happy despite everything grated on others, but nativity didn’t mean he was stupid.

He was pretty sure Cyclonus wouldn’t hang around him if he were.

When it became clear no one else was gonna go check on Whirl ‘Gate knew it’d fallen on him. Hopefully he was in a good mood, or at least, in enough of a mood to not be angry (not that he’d hurt Tailgate previously or even threatened to, but the minibot knew better than to assume that meant he wouldn’t ever.)The Copter’s moods changed faster than the minibot could track half the time and one never truly really knew. Even Cyclonus, who hesitated to cause so much of a scratch now, had had no issues punting him across a room when they’d first been getting to know each other. The others blamed the Decepticon-like nature of both larger bots, but Tailgate privately thought it was the effects of the war. It did things to people. Things like PTSD and trigger fingers and emotional problems and a bunch of other stuff outlined in the datapad Rung had loaned him when he’d asked about it forever ago. Perhaps he was too easy to forget and forgive, too fast to accept apologizes, but something in him just wouldn’t let him back off. And when he’d realized originally that no one cared to check on Cyclonus (or Whirl, or a lot of mechs) well, Tailgate figured that could be his job. His real job.

  
To care about people.

So off he went, to make sure Whirl was okay and not in desperate need of..well, something. He had a hard time imagining Whirl needing help, but didn’t everyone need help now and then? Especially if he was hurt...

‘Gate started the normal way, by sending a few comms and waiting the appropriate amount of time. Then he’d sent a few more, and a couple of texts and pings, before finally, ending up on Whirl’s door.

“It’s me!” He called after buzzing the bell. “Can I come in?”

He wasn’t sure Whirl was even in here-but where else would be be? No one answered though-but Tailgate didn’t give up. If there was one thing he’d learned, it was that if people didn’t respond to you being nice they definitely responded to you being annoying.

He hit the bell until he heard some kind of snarled response. Tailgate paused, waiting-but when nothing happened, he resorted to physically knocking on the door.

To his great surprise, it slid right open.

 _‘Not good.’_ He thought, before stepping in.

“Whirl? Are you okay?” He asked, scanning for the ‘Copter.

The room was dark, but it was the unlocked door that had Tailgate on edge more than anything. Whirl let you into his room on his terms. No one else's. Leaving the door unlocked was more than enough to cause a great deal of concern.

“Whirl?” He asked again, as he inched into the room.

“Frag off.” was the reply, so muted Tailgate could barely make it out. It took him a moment to adjust to the light but when he did...

“Whirl you don’t look so good.” He said, when he finally spotted the ‘Copter.

‘Cause he didn’t. His optic was dialated to a pinprick, his armor was slick with condensation-the kind caused by overheating. The room itself was really hot-hotter than it should have been, and worst of all, Whirl hadn’t moved from the birth since Tailgate had entered

“Ju’s a helmache.” Whirl slurred. “Go ‘way.”

“A helmache? Have you had this entire time? That’s a long time to have one.” Tailgate had gotten better about rapid-fire questions, but they always came back when he was worried. He didn’t except Whirl to answer them-in fact he kinda hoped he didn’t. Whirl brushing it off would at least prove he wasn’t dying.

“It’s chronic pipsq’k.  Goes ‘way on it’s own terms. Unlike _you.”_ Whirl said, this time a bit clearer. It was the most rational and Whirl-like thing he’d spoken since Tailgate had entered the room.

A bit of the worry that clenched the minibot’s tanked eased, but not all of it. Whirl still hadn’t moved, was lying creepily still.

He knew what chronic meant. He also knew that Whirl had a serious issue with medics, even Ratchet, and would freak if ‘Gate called him. Ratchet was scary at times,  but not as scary as Whirl seemed to think he was.  There was fear there, that Tailgate didn’t think was caused by Ratchet himself but by his title, his job. Whatever it was it went beyond normal and the time he’d tried to speculate with Cyclonus, the jet had told him it was best to leave some things alone.

Except ‘Gate knew him better than that-the jet had spent the next week eyeing Whirl in a way that he knew meant Cyclonus was thinking things over. Cyclonus had a very specific ‘thinking face.’ Just because the others couldn’t see it didn’t mean he couldn’t. Which was the tipping point for the two larger mechs if he thought about it-Tailgate had known they hadn’t liked each other at first but something had changed. It was gradual, but things had been...different, since that day.

Speaking of the purple jet-“I think I’m gonna go get Cyclonus.” He said, because Whirl would react to him better than Ratchet. It didn’t matter that Whirl said it was chronic-Whirl lied. It was better to be safe than sorry.

He practically ran out of the room when Whirl didn’t protest.

xXx

 

“Whirl.” Cyclonus repeated, for the fourth time. His voice had started out harsh but had gentled, into something that bothered Tailgate almost as much as Whirl’s unresponsiveness did. Because Cyclonus almost never sounded like that.

Ever.

“Thought I told you to fuck off.” Whirl grumbled, still not moving.

“No I believe you told that to Tailgate.” Cyclonus corrected, standing over Whirl’s berth and examining the ‘Copters tense plating. He followed it up, clearly seeing something Tailgate wasn’t.

“Is it your helm?” He continued, when Whirl didn’t answer.

“Yeah.”

Tailgate was surprised at the grunted answer, half expecting Whirl to just try and ignore them until they left. Wouldn’t have been the first time he’d done something like that after all.

“Tailgate said you claimed it was chronic?”

“Yes.” Less of a grunt that time-was he tired? Tailgate worried his fingers, but kept quiet as Cyclonus did his thing.

The old warrior stood there for a moment, looking Whirl over before letting out a  ‘ _hmm’._ Apparently Tailgate wasn’t the only one to learn some of Cyclonus’s odder forms of communication.

“Don’t you fragging dare touch me you-” Whirl spat, optic shooting wide, but it was too late. The purple mech had already bent down, had a hand on Whirl’s head.

He did something, ‘Gate wasn’t sure what. But Cyclonus had an odd kind of grip on the base of Whirl’s neck, and Whirl went from hissing curses at him to a sudden relieved sigh and a demanded; “Keep doing that.”

“Tailgate,” Cyclonus murmured, and he trotted right over, knowing the danger had passed. “Press a hand here.” He moved the hand closest to him to one side of Whirl’s helm. “Press hard.” He instructed, as . Tailgate stepped up.  Tailgate nodded to show he was listening, put his hands were told too and pressed as hard as he could.

Whirl physically sagged, relief making his limbs slump from the position they’d been clutched in. Tailgate physically felt it, and he looked at Cyclonus with startled optics.

“Get into a position you find comfortable.” Cyclonus advised him quietly. “You’ll be pressing for a while.”

‘Gate did as he was told, crawling over Whirl so he could sit down and put his back to the wall, oing it quickly so he could get back to pressing. Cyclonus sunk into the bed, sitting close to press his the opposite side of Whirl’s helm and together, they held him while Whirl went limp.

Tailgate didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but it was a while.. Long enough for him to stop trying to talk to Cyclonus over comms and instead get caught up on browsing through the Lost Light ‘s web forum on his HUD. Long enough that his arms grew heavy and tired-but he pressed on. He’d keep pressing, until someone told him to stop.

Finally Whirl stirred, waving a claw lazily to try and get them both off.

“Better?” Cyclonus asked, sitting up. He kept his hands on Whirl’s helm-Whirl let him. Tailgate let go though, desperate for the chance to rest his arm.

“Yeah.” Whirl said, voice much stronger. Tailgate beamed at him as Whirl’s field seemed to come to life, nudging his and Cyclonus’s both in something that could have almost been gratitude. He didn’t look _nearly_ as bad-Cyclonus had apparently adjusted the temperature in the room, not that Tailgate ever saw him touch the control pad, and the condensation was gone. Even his optic looked a touch brighter!

“Next time this happens, come to us.” Cyclonus said it in his ‘I’m not asking I’m telling” voice (and huh, Tailgate had never noticed before just how many voices Cyclonus had. Swerve swore they all sounded the same but they totally didn’t.)

Whirl didn’t answer, instead avoiding looking at him entirely and stretching his arms out in front of him.

His field withdrew-and Cyclnus’s frowned, optics growing narrow.  Tailgate moved as Whirl made motions to show he was trying to get up, but Cyclonus refused to, stopping him.

“Whirl.” He changed his grip on Whirl’s helm to one that caused the copter to freeze, and ‘Gate thought for a moment they were in for a fight-except Cyclonus field had done that ripple thing that meant he had figured something out. Had seen something, the kind of things he saw in body language and subtle cues. Tailgate could feel it through his own, a fast blast of emotions that were unidentifiable but always followed when the jet had decided on something.

Cyclonus’s hand tightened, and he raised himself slightly, stepping just so off the berth so he that loomed. “Whirl.” He repeated, this time in a voice befitting an old war hero, “you _will_ come to us.”

Whirl couldn’t turn his helm to stare him down, not with the hold Cyclonus had, but his optic blazed anyway. Cyclonus leaned down, put pressure that was more threatening than healing-except his field traveled downwards with it. It retracted to center on Whirl and Whirl alone-though Tailgate could  sense the edges of it, got the barest hint of what was passed. It was a heat of some kind, almost like-

But no, that wasn’t appropriate at all for the moment, how would that prevent a fight? Whirl might clearly not be 100% better (not even close, if Tailgate had understood what Cyclonus had told him earlier about what might happen and how the pressure helped) but that’d never stopped him before. Primus Tailgate had once saw him fight with half his cockpit off!

He froze, watching the scene play out and wishing he was just a touch farther away-except whatever was in Cyclonus field _did something_ to Whirl’s.

“Fine.” Whirl said after a moment and his voice was weird too-Tailgate had never heard it like that before. A little higher than normal, laced with the barest touches of static. “I’ll come to you.”

“Good.” Cyclonus let up on him, turning his hold into a stroke.“Tailgate, tell Whirl he’s good.” He added, sitting back down.  

He turned to look over Whirl, at Tailgate and the minibot had that lost feeling again, like he’d come in mid conversation and was too confused to figure out what was being talked about. His optics flickered down to Whirl’s, trying to puzzle it all out-only to see Whirl staring at him.

There was something there, something that Tailgate could almost see shrink the longer he kept silent.

The puzzle pieces were slow to come together-in fact, Tailgate wasn’t certain he had even solved it-but he let his hand gently stroke Whirl’s helm anyway, let his field brush affectionately against Whirl’s.

“Good boy.” He purred, and Whirl shuddered, leaning into his touch.

Well now.

This was new.

Tailgate kept stroking, still concerned and not-so-subtly trying to get Whirl to lay back down, but a bit more understanding of both the bigger mechs fields. Now really wasn’t the time to explore, not with Whirl as he was but…

It was definitely something for later.


	8. Good Omens AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Xmas, Happy Holidays, have a Good Omens AU. This actually went in an entirely different direction that the one I was writing so I'll likely, eventually have two. (The other was titled The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Rung, Therapist and featured the Scavengers as Grievous Bodily Harm, Cruelty to Animals, Things Not Working Properly Even After You've Given Them A Good Thumping But Secretly No Alcohol Lager, and Really Cool People, AKA the other members of the horseman of the apocalypse.) It came about after my yearly reading of the novel. If you haven't read it I suggest you do it (and then go watch Dogma.)

Characters: Cyclonus, Tailgate, Whirl, and Rung.

Universe: IDW/(side-G1/all)

Warnings: None

Pairings: Cygate, very strongly hinted Rung/Whirl.

Summary: "“We all agreed,” Whirl said, several thousand vorns and a good number of drinks later, “that Rodimus was the anti-Christ.”

“Anti-Christ is a human term.” Rung corrected, equally drunk and letting it show. “We agreed to stop using those after the purple griffin.” AKA a short Good Omens AU.

* * *

 

The Earth was a Libra

  

Cyclonus was an old dog of war. He’d served many Masters, lived many lives. He was a legend in this one alone, never-mind his others and his collective skills could make a titan pale in fear. So he was not at all surprised when he was called again before his current life had ended, to serve once more.

He didn’t mind though. This was the big one. The mech he had always hoped to serve. The start of their unmaking-the unholy one.

The Bringer of Unicron.

He would not grow with this mech, as he had his prior Masters. Instead Cyclonus would serve in his full-fledged form, a warrior strong and lethal. He was to be the general of the armies, the enforcer of every command his Master demanded.

At least, that’s what he’d _thought._

He began as he always did, receiving a set of instructions. These were a tad...unusual, but this Master was unusual, so he did as he was told. He went to sign his name to the roster of the Lost Light, the only non-Autobot to do so yet. His Master would sign up to journey aboard this ship too, he knew, and his Master was no Autobot. The instructions said there would only be two of them, and Cyclonus could only imagine why. Perhaps they would take the ship.  The crew. Perhaps they would kill them. Perhaps the ship was only a thing to get them from Point A to B.

He didn’t know. So long as Cyclonus found his Master, he didn’t care. It wasn’t his will to.  The only thing he wondered of was his purpose.

His Master, upon their meeting, would claim him. Would give him his orders, the one thing meant to define the core of Cyclonus’s being. It was difficult to re-write the coding currently there, as he was not being remade for his new Master, but it was not undoable. Nor would it be fought-rather, Cyclonus was eager, with every strut of his being, to discover his new purpose.

His _true_ purpose.

For this was the Master to end all masters Cyclonus would never have a purpose again.

He went aboard the ship. Sat in the bar. Waited.

He knew the second his Master walked in the door. Cyclonus stood only after checking that he was presentable.  After a deciding nod to himself, he slowly made his way over.

This was it. This was the day. The moment. An equal amount of blood-thirst and eagerness went through him as he caught his Master’s optical band. The things he would do in this Master’s name…

They were unspeakable.

They were _waiting._

Cyclonus walked faster, shivering in anticipation, craving his purpose.

Today was the beginning of the end.

xXx

 

Whirl did not fall from the well so much as he had swan dived out of it. Swan dived with both middle fingers held in an upright position, whooping a yell that many would later assume ended up being the reason he had been forced to undergo Emperata. A wee bit of cosmic revenge, a joke and a statement all in one. Whirl could have reversed it at any time of course, being what he was, but never had. Instead, he decided the entire get-up made him all the more demonic than anything he could have actually done to himself and strode about like a proud earthen avian, eager to show off. [[1](%E2%80%9C#note1%E2%80%9D)]

In direct contrast, Rung had volunteered to leave.

They were neither demons nor angels. Had different names entirely, but those names had been long lost. Instead they picked the Earth names, finding them amusing in ways that got them suspicious glances from others of their species.

Not they really spoke to any of _those_ mechs anymore. Communication was really down to just a few meetings a year. Really disappointing meetings, in Whirl’s case (“Who spends centuries trying to poison one mech!?” He’d whined, to Rung once, while feeding some long-off planet’s version of a duck. “Nevermind the entire _crew_ that worked on Overlord!”)

The point was, demons had always lived on Cybertron (or rather, with the core of the planet’s main species, as the planet itself was in rather dire straits) but only one Angel permanently resided upon it, and someone had to take the mantle. Despite a number of offers of retirement, Rung continued to vigorously defend the position, and maintain he was best suited for it.

He would never admit it, but Rung’s  love of datapads might have been a deciding factor.

Regardless of how they got there, they had, and their position as physical, see-able beings meant their lives, inevitably, crossed paths. They had always known of each other, of course. Hard not to, when you lived for the entire creation of the planet. With knowing come an uneasy friendship, that had at this point, bloomed into something a tad more and now they did everything from cover each others shifts to buying each other small gifts for varying planets holidays.

And that’s where this mess really started.

With an demon and an angel, deciding over lunch, to share custody of the being fated to destroy the world.

The poor thing _did_ need an equal chance, after all. And who better to give it that, then them?

xXx

 

“I am Cyclonus.” The old jet said, kneeling before the smaller bot before him. His Master was not a fearsome mech, rather small.  He felt young despite the obvious age of his build- no doubt a trickery of his own power.  “What do you desire of me?”

“Pardon?” His Master chirped, optical band blinking. His voice was-higher, than anticipated. Cyclonus tried not to wince. His master would learn the deep-throated growls, the howls of the battlefield. He just needed some practice.

But his Master said nothing else and though it was not his place, Cyclonus gently prodded him.

“My purpose.” Cyclonus asked, head bent in submission, body tense while his Master withheld the answer. Perhaps his Master knew he was being judged? If that was the case he had never meant any harm! Squeaky voiceboxes could always be fixed!

“I don’t-I’m not following. I’m sorry!” His Master said, concerned and looking for help from the mechs next to him. Cyclonus tried not to frown-his Master shouldn’t be asking _them!_

Maybe he just...had to rephrase himself. His Master was young after all, in spark. It wasn’t the first time a Master had been confused at the beginning. But they all caught the hang out it. Eventually.

“I am here to serve you.” Cyclonus told him gently, calming his voice from the fearsome thing it had been a minute earlier, when he first presented himself. “What do you want me to be?”

“Oh!” his Master nearly jumped in place, field flickering with happiness now that he understood what Cyclonus wanted Cyclonus shared his smile. The bigger mech tried to keep himself from quivering, tried to focus as his Master made his proclamation-

“Thank you-but I really think I’m not ready for anything like that yet.” He must have seen Cyclonus’s face fall, because he was quick to add; “But I do need a roommate! If you’d be okay with that, I mean. I’m not ready to go on a date or anything, but maybe later?  After we get to know each other more?”

Cyclonus openly stared at him now, his own field filled with confusion as the His Purpose slid into place.

He was to be a _roommate_ -and maybe, later,  something more.

What an odd way to start the apocalypse.

xXx  


“We all agreed,” Whirl said, several thousand vorns and a good number of drinks later, “that Rodimus was the anti-Christ.”

“Anti-Christ is a human term.” Rung corrected, equally drunk and letting it show. “We agreed to stop using those after the purple griffin.”

“His full title is just so..” Whirl waved a claw, ignoring Rung as his optic fuzzed out at the edges, “...ew, though.”

“Bringer of Unicron is a perfectly fearsome title, I believe. I also believe,” and here Rung sighed, vents fluttering in a way that was not at all distracting to the ‘Copter sitting opposite of him, “I also believe we were wrong.”

“How were we wrong? He blew up Nyon!” Whirl protested, words slurred. “That is such Anti-Christ behavior that I’m surprised the big guy himself didn’t strike Roddy down then and there!” No really, he was. They’d all looked to the sky after that fiasco. Primus had remained silent though, and so, after a number of concerned looks, gestures and shrugs, they’d moved on.

“I don’t think so-it was a moral decision he made to save everyone else.” That had taken a lot out of Rung’s processor to get out. A pity, since Whirl understood none of it. “The _lesser_ of two evils.” Rung had a point he was trying to make but it was a touch beyond him. He contemplated trying to explain and opted instead to take another drink. Whirl drank with him.

“Ya know,” He said, after a moment, “this whole thing doesn’t feel right.”

“I know.” Rung said sadly, into his drink. He didn’t want the universe to end. Think of everything that was in it! Like earth, and it’s panda’s and dolphins! His model ships! Adele! [[2](%E2%80%9C#note2%E2%80%9D)]

“No, no.” Whirl shook his head, then his claws, letting his drink slosh. “I mean Roddy. He isn’t right.”

Rung snorted. “Well we knew that.”  

“No _ooo_.” Whirl whined, dragging the word out. “I mean, he doesn’t feel right. Not-not like the Anti-Christ!”

“Bringer of Unicron.” Rung corrected immediately, and then frowned. “You know,” he then added, after giving himself a moment to think it over, “you’re right. He doesn’t. Feel like him. But if he isn’t then-”

“-who is.” Whirl finished, with an anxious nod.

“That’s not right.” Rung said, trying to put his head in a hand and missing entirely. “ _They_ told us it was him. _They_ can’t be wrong-can they?”

“But they didn’t. Say it was specifically him that is.” Whirl’s drink was all over the table now, the ‘Copter having entirely forgotten it was in his claw, “They _implied_ . And the thing is, the thing _is-”_

And Rung hummed his agreement because yeah, he knew what the thing was.

Primus was in charge of it all. Not, the very boss’s( or boss’s boss’s)  of Rung and Whirl. And Primus moved in extremely mysterious, if not to say circuitous ways.

Primus didn’t play dice with the universe; he played an ineffable game of his own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of all other players, to being involved in an obscure and complex game of Civilization, in a glitched-out game, with unlabeled enemies and a computer that assigns value points randomly to all it’s players. [[3](%E2%80%9C#note3%E2%80%9D)]

He also had a _horrid_ sense of humor.

So their discussion did not end there, with the two of them staring into their drinks with a slow, sinking realization that they might have fucked up.  Instead, the world around them exploded in a burst of bright, white light and lit up with a scream. A scream that resounded around the universe. Rattled the celestial spheres. It spoke of loss and it went on, _and on._

Angel and demon traded wide-opticked glances, before blinking away the effects of their drinks [[4](%E2%80%9C#note4%E2%80%9D)] and leaping up, to join the chaos, bursting out of Rung’s office door. For they knew that sound, and knew just as suddenly, that they _had_ screwed up. They had misdirected themselves, or perhaps been misdirected, and in their failure, had completely missed the chance to shape the things that were about to come.

The universe was ending.

Rung and Whirl were still determined to see it through though. Might as well, even if there was nothing they could do.

They arrived a touch late, but still in time to witness the answer-if one could call it that-to all their problems.

“Someone help him!” Tailgate screamed, his entire body glowing a way that could only be defined as _godly,_ Cyclonus tucked against him. The old mechs wounds were healing before everyone’s optics, as Tailgate cried, and oil of all things begun raining from the ceiling.  Oil, brimstone-and was that a touch of gelled goodies? Whirl and Rung traded yet another, disbelieving look, momentarily shocked out of the roles they were supposed to play, as the answer to everything slowly stopped sobbing on the floor in front of them. Instead-and only after Cyclonus was healed, did Tailgate sit up. He was hiccuping, but it was going away. His field flattened before flaring out once more, this time with a burst of knowledge-the kind unmatched by any before it. The oil stopped, the brimstone faded, and the gels bounced harmlessly to sit on the floor. The wreckage cleared, instead, miraculously fixed.

“I think,” Whirl said slowly, wishing he hadn’t given up the effects of the high-grade quiet so soon, “we found the mech we were missing.” Rung said nothing, simply stared, one hand clutched against his chest. Because obviously, they had.

Tailgate was the Anti-Christ. (Or the Bringer of Unicron, depending on your preference.) This was as obvious as the mess quickly growing a lake on the floor of the hallway.

He also apparently, wasn’t going about ending the world. Which was both a problem and a relief. ( again, depending on your preference.)

The angel and demon standing awkwardly out of the way knew which one they preferred-and they waited, eagerly for Tailgate to decide on the way things were going to fall.  
We of course, know what he chose to do. Which was, in the end, nothing at all.[[5](%E2%80%9C#note5%E2%80%9D)]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1More than a few minor demons had it on good authority that Whirl had seriously contemplated a change upon spotting a 1926 Black Bentley. New, one owner, and well looked after. He’d stolen it instead. 
> 
> 2Rung was a very big Adele fan, and had met her twice. He maintained she was the nicest artist he’d met since he’d accidentally bumped into an old famous cybertronian back in the golden age. 
> 
> 3 Whirl swore up and down he’d personally been nuked by Gandhi, twice. 
> 
> 4 For angels and demons weren’t supposed to get drunk, but could, and could just as easily get undrunk. Just took a bit of thought. 
> 
> 5 “Maybe it's all part of a great big ineffable plan. All of it. You, me, him, everything. Some great big test to see if what you've built all works properly, eh? You start thinking: it can't be a great cosmic game of chess, it has to be just very complicated Solitaire. And don't bother to answer. If we could understand, we wouldn't be us. Because it's all — all — "  
> INEFFABLE, said the figure feeding the ducks.


	9. Deadlock/Ratchet-Gentle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting the slow process of editing Tumblr prompts and uploading them all. Some have things added on or stuff removed. I feel this one is a nice way to kick it off though! 
> 
> Deadlock/Ratchet 
> 
> Warnings: NSFW, unintended lip bite.

Deadlock loved like he fought. Hard, fast, and without compassion. 

It was Ratchet who slowed him down. 

He kept Deadlock on top, knowing the gunner would object to having his back pinned just as much as he would to being pinned down. Even passionately. The slimmer mech was grinding hard, his heated array drawing sparks as it moved across Ratchet’s own. The medic didn’t object-but he did move a hand to Deadlock’s hip. Hooked a thumb in a seam, rubbed a gentle circle in his armor. 

When Deadlock’s head came down to kiss him-all hard nips and demanding glossa-Ratchet let his own be slow. Heavy. The kisses he returned where as gentle as his hold, ignoring the energon Deadlock’s fang’s drew and sucking on his frantic glossa in slow waves. 

One of the gunner’s hands slammed down, right next to Ratchet’s head. Ratchet responded by running one of his own hands up the extended arm-then across Deadlock’s shoulders, stroking  down his back. Ever so slowly he moved down, to cup the Decepticon’s aft, palming it almost lovingly. 

Deadlock pulled away violently, rearing up like Ratchet had struck him.  “Stop that!” He spat, optics narrowed.

Ratchet titled his head at him, tongue darting out to catch the energon leaking from his punctured lip. 

“Stop what?” He said, knowing the movement of his glossa had already re-directed Deadlock’s attention.

“This is a frag. Stop treating it like it’s a, a--” Deadlock trailed off, struggling to name the things he balked at. 

“This  _ is _ a frag. This is how _ I _ frag.” Ratchet rolled his hips up, let his array make contact with Drift’s. “You’re the one halting things.” 

Deadlock snarled at that, slamming his hips down against Ratchet’s and grinding hard. Ratchet allowed it, letting the other mech have a moment at his desired pace to keep him invested before slowing it down again.  

_ “You can’t treat ‘em like they’re fragile ‘cause they’re not.” _ Kup had told him once, when Ratchet had asked how he managed to turn so many ex-Cons.  _ “But the one thing they’re all starved of? Gentleness. Gentle affection. Gentle attention. You have to go slow though-you go to fast, you give them too much and it’ll break them.”  _

Ratchet had thought he was full of it. That Kup had been teasing, or lying-but it was true. He could see it now, in the way Deadlock balked at it. In the way slower movements scared him.

He’d hardened himself to survive. He was afraid of who he’d be if he allowed himself to be soft. Of what would happen to him.

Drift had been a gutter mech, which no options to get out. It wasn’t hard for Ratchet to remember that, but it was difficult to recall just what it meant. He had admitted to himself, long ago, that he could have done better with Drift. Could have helped him get out, get a job. Get into some kind of apprenticeship. He hadn’t though-had barely helped any of his patients in that way.

How many would have been Autobot’s, if he had? How many Autobot’s would have lived, never having to face the monsters Ratchet had a hand in creating? 

He had a chance now. To right a wrong. To see what Kup saw-not a badge but a person.

Deadlock had killed thousands-but so had Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. All three were praised by their respective sides for their kill-counts. All three were looked at with contempt by members of their own fraction for those same counts. 

Their only difference was who surrounded them, and what badge they wore.

Ratchet could change those two things. Not for Deadlock, but for Drift. For the mech he knew was still inside the one lying atop him. 

He just had to be gentle.

So he was. 


	10. Sunstreaker/Optimus-Ask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna put some other stuff up here and figured I might as well throw this one up too. 
> 
> Pairing: Sunstreaker/Optimus 
> 
> Universe: Ehhh it's a mixed bag
> 
> Warnings: None of your standards. This is actually kinda fluffy?? Some typical hints of the usual shit the twins see–outcast/seen as different/untrustworthy/etc, and Optimus being seen as basically an untouchable demi-God doing his usual self-sacrificing putting others before himself shit.
> 
> Summary: Sunstreaker himself isn't stable--but he is good at stabilizing others. Or rather, one, specific other.

Ask

* * *

 

Sunstreaker waited as he always did. Leaned against some shadowed corner, glaring down any who so much as cast a questioning glance his way. He kept waiting, occasionally checking the schedule he’d had Sideswipe… _acquire,_ and knew it was only a matter of moments.

Sure enough, the door to the room Command claimed for their meetings split open, spilling out a number of mechs. Sunstreaker let them pass without comment, few seeing him. The ones that did either gave a stern glance (Prowl) or a knowing wink (Jazz.)  Ratchet dallied long enough to whisper his approval unheard as he passed.

Prime, as always, was the last to exit.

He too, passed Sunstreaker without a glance, something the frontliner was used too. It wasn’t that his Prime was ignoring him, it was that Optimus hadn’t seen him. He never did. His refusal to recharge was the entire reason Sunstreaker was here, and it’s mark was always a lack of awareness.

Sunstreaker tracked him, counting the seconds in his head from the time the larger mech disappeared around the corner.

Their arrangement may have been known to higher Command, but it wasn’t to anyone else. People had...problems...with what he did. What he was going to do.

The Prime was untouchable. A living symbol, a direct connection to their God. Atheist or not, middle of the war or not, there were things so heavily ingrained in culture that they were unthinkable. Many a Decepticon wouldn’t outright attack Optimus, despite Megatron’s constant reassurances that his enemy was nothing more than an over-hyped figurehead.

The Matrix did nothing to help, there.

He was untouchable. Undefeated. Pure.

The very center of the Autobots, their moral compass.

All things that directly opposed Sunstreaker.

There were mechs aboard the Ark who held some very old-school thoughts though they hid them well. Thoughts that someone as lowly as Sunstreaker, as bloodthirsty as he was, should never be allowed near the Prime. Should only be allowed to do so if it was an emergency and he was under heavy supervision.

Little did they know…

He waited until his count reached thirty before he  pushed off the wall, out of the shadows. To follow the path his leader had taken, pace leisurely even if he wanted to stalk. Prowl thought it would be less obvious if he didn’t wait for the Prime as he did, when he was needed, but Sunstreaker disagreed. Mechs saw what they wanted too. Sunstreaker could be blanker than a wiped datapad when he needed to be, and it didn’t take  much for mechs to draw their own conclusions. To realize how often he and his brother were in trouble. It took only a few slight comments, dropped by Jazz and his ilk, for people to think Sunstreaker was headed to a punishment.  And if not a punishment than a “talking too”--things that happened just enough to make others overlook Sunstreaker’s private meetings.

It helped as well, that those who knew covered for him well.

And if not him, then for their Prime.

Optimus Prime, was a mech of the people. For the people. By the people. He was also highly social and greatly connected to his Autobots.

Before the war, he’d wanted a family.

Wanted nothing more _than_ a family.

Being chosen Prime, being thrust into the spotlight both as the personal messenger for their god and as the leader of their entire faction (and thus, everyone’s superior) made things like personal relationships...difficult. There were few willing to interface with the Prime let alone openly court him.  That pool narrowed when considering the Prime’s personal preferences (though Sunstreaker, personally, thought the great idiot could likely talk himself into falling in love with anyone if given enough time.)

Without the ties though, the personal relationships, the Prime...faltered. Not in his beliefs, or in his duties, but in himself. The Prime would go through phases, putting everyone above himself even more so than usual. Passing up on recharge, throwing himself into meetings and plans and trainings. Unnecessary events, to distract from the pain, the knowledge.

It had gotten pretty bad, by the time Sunstreaker had caught onto what was happening.

Unlike those who knew but refused to do anything, Sunstreaker had no qualms. He was already facing backlash from others for a number of things, already highly disapproved and distrusted. This wouldn’t harm his reputation, or cast doubts on him.  Plus, Optimus was an attractive mech. He was one of the few who respected Sunstreaker over fearing him, and accepted him and his brother despite their faults. His intervention had prevented their dismissal from the army on more than one occasion.

So Sunstreaker stepped up where others couldn’t. Took matters into his own hands--literally--and accepted any outcomes his actions may cause.

It had taken a few times for Optimus to understand he was serious, but Sunstreaker had managed to pull enough patience from somewhere to see it through.

He knocked on his lover’s door now, covering for the fact that he had pinged the code to it. To anyone watching him, it would appear Optimus had opened the door.

Sunstreaker let himself in as the door did just that, and waited until it closed behind him before continuing forward.

“Berth.” He commanded, when he saw his leader sitting on a chair.  Blue helm hung, held up by a splayed hand and the mech didn’t even jump when Sunstreaker spoke, nor moved much when the frontliner went over to tug incessantly on an arm.

Optimus huffed a quiet laugh but it was hollow. Fake. Sunstreaker ignored it as the great mech finally lumbered to his feet.

  
They walked slowly to the bed, Sunstreaker backwards, until his legs hit the edge of the berth. He sat easily, gracefully, still tugging. Optimus followed him, falling more than anything else. They situation themselves quickly, Sunstreaker crawling half on top of the Prime’s windshield.

“Not tonight.” Optimus said suddenly, optics half lit. Sad. “I’m sorry, but--not tonight.”

He meant interfacing and they both knew he was too tired for it.

“Not what I’m here for.” Sunstreaker grunted, wiggling against an arm, hoping it’s owner would get the hint. He did, but only after a confused look at the wiggling.

The arm came up to wrap around Sunstreaker’s back and the lamborghini relaxed, sinking into the broad chest under him. His chin rested atop crossed hands, tilted up to look at Optimus’s face.

Already, the truck’s field felt better.

Prime’s other hand came up to stroke Sunstreaker’s shoulder gently for a moment, hands tracing patterns and he gentled into the touch, as he did for no other besides his twin.

This was for Optimus. Only for Optimus.

They sat in comfortable silence, until finally, sleep overtook the larger mech. Sunstreaker stayed awake, memorizing the lines of his lover’s face to draw later. Knew his presence eased a burden, even if Optimus questioned it from time to time.

Sunstreaker didn’t blame him, they had nothing in common. Not truly. Of course, Sunstreaker had few interests beyond tearing Decepticon’s in two, so the fact held little weight. For him, anyway.

Optimus….

Well. There was a lot of things that meant something to Optimus. Things that might make their not-relationship a problem if the war ever ended.

Sunstreaker didn’t expect to make it that long though. His entire goal was to get his Prime through the war and die gallantly in the final battle, as was his twins. Living beyond the war scared the both of them, the idea of a world where the skills they were best known for were entirely unneeded.

Prime would find someone better then, though.

All he needed was someone now and Sunstreaker was more than content to be that person. Even if Prime never understood it. Never got it--that all Sunstreaker needed to be was loved.

Wanted.

That, he found in his Prime, and for it, he’d give everything he had in him. Mind, body, soul.

Whatever the Prime wanted, he could have--from himself or his twin.

He didn’t even have to ask.


	11. Starscream/Wheeljack-Twisted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Starscream/Wheeljack
> 
> Universe: IDW
> 
> Warnings: prior mention of an abusive relationship, fighting, PTSD, general Scream stuff. Comment if you want a warning! 
> 
> Notes: I haven't actually read RID/TF so if that part about Optimus doesn't match up then just skip riiiiight over it. 
> 
> Summary: Starscream has...issues.

Twisted

* * *

 

He was carrying thousands of years of hurt and the stupid mustang thought he could undo it with some words and a look.

He was twisted up. Non-functioning, drinking himself under tables to forget it all, to face the morning. Physical pain had never compared to the emotional and Starscream had known he’d needed to pull out of the relationship with Megatron. 

He also knew without him he didn’t have a support system. His choices, by the time things had taken a turn had amounted to two options.

Leave, and face losing everything? Including, most likely, his own life? 

Or stay and try and fix it?

If not the relationship, then the war. 

There was no hope for the relationship. He knew it then, but he’d pretended he hadn’t, to make it through his plans. The planet, their very race, their  _ cause _ ….that he still had hope for. 

For all the lives lost, all those now abandoned by the leader who’d called them to action. Seeing the Autobrand on the tyrants chest burned, an emotional slap Starscream never needed. The very thing he’d spent half his contemplating, balancing treason on the knifes edge of his own morals and here that idiot had gone and done it. No moral qualms. No real backlash. Accepted, if poorly, because of his own personal enemy. 

_ ‘Optimus Prime would have never spoken on your behalf.’  _ Starscream told himself, and felt the weight of truth.  _ ‘The autobots in general, would have never accepted you.’  _

That they had accepted the very leader of the opposing faction said more than Starscream cared to think about everyone’s opinion of the seeker, but it wasn’t something he hadn't known. He’d been made out to be the villain--in both factions--a label he’d had for so long he no longer fought it. Played into it even, when it gave him an advantage. 

With a hollow glee, Starscream wondered how Tarn was doing. He hoped it was horribly. 

He hoped it all hurt, like he did, like he had. That the hurt stayed, renewed with each person who spoke against him. Starscream was mocked just as much as he was feared and his struggle to stay on top of it all---

Wheeljack didn’t get it. 

Starscream hadn’t expected him too. 

It didn’t make any of it hurt less. 


	12. Swindle/Blurr-Discount

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Swindle/Blurr
> 
> Universe: IDW
> 
> Warnings: Swindle got his ass shot, but he lives so it works out. 
> 
> Summary: Swindle was on the ‘friends and family’ discount list for places spanning entirely galaxies.
> 
> That didn’t mean he was actually friends with any of these people.

Discount

* * *

 

Swindle was on the ‘friends and family’ discount list for places spanning entirely galaxies. 

That didn’t mean he was actually friends with any of these people. 

It was a business thing. Some places got you on that list for being a big spender. Some put you on the list when you schmoozed with the owners, and others when you blackmailed the frag out of them.

To get on Maccadam’s, all Swindle had to do was save a life. Everything after that was just basic maintenance--he showed up,  he helped rebuild the bar, he turned Blurr’s fame into a photo-with-your-hero side-business.  All the usual stuff that helped him nail down those freebies and discounts. 

Never once had he assumed he was an  _ actual friend _ of Blurr’s, oh no. Not until much later. When the jokes and teasing and fake wrestling matches appeared. Then they were “friends.”

Not _ real _ friends of course. Swindle didn’t do “real” friends. What he did know was how to fake the game. Play it so well not a spark was fooled. 

He assumed this was mutual. Blurr knew the game better than most mechs. He’d been a superstar after all, he could give a good performance when he wanted to. Flirted when he needed to to move high grade, laughed at bad jokes when a regular made them. Gave the Friends and Family discount to everyone who used the bar as a second home. Swindle wasn’t special. He got more discounts than others because he’d played hero once and Blurr thought he was amusing, that was it. 

Blurr wasn’t special either. Swindle helped him out because he liked all the free booze and the way they both knew to not bring up certain things in the past. 

Hanging out with Blurr was easy. Being understood like that was easier. 

Their favors started to grow. Why not? They had already traded the biggest things anyone could-Swindle wasn’t dumb enough to pretend Blurr hadn’t saved his life first. It was the entire reason he’d pulled Blurr’s aft out of the line of fire after all. On the off chance the speedster survived he didn’t want anything like a pesky life-debt. Swindle didn’t believe in them of course, but many of his customers did and respect--and business--would most definitely be lost if Swindle was found to not be honoring one. 

So what if things went from free legal advice to straight up doing Blurr’s taxes? Swindle was getting paid for it. Not in credit, but through bottles of expensive high grade, Blurr’s connections, Blurr’s  _ attention.  _

Having a Wrecker at your beck and call wasn’t exactly something to shrug away lightly.

And sure, Blurr swore he didn’t want to fight anymore but he would. Did. 

It wasn’t something Swindle put a lot of thought into.

The flirting was fake. The lingering touches were for show. The hugs, and wrestling, and jokes was all a part of the game. 

It wasn’t until Swindle was staring at his own energon, pouring out of the whole in his chest, that he allowed himself to admit that maybe, just once, he hadn’t always been faking it. That there was something  _ there.  _ Something he kinda regretted not acknowledging, even if he’d never think such a thing if he  _ wasn’t _ actively dying. 

It wasn’t until he’d made it to Blurr’s apartment an unknown amount of days later, exhausted, half grey and unsure of how he was still moving that he hoped his hunch was right. That he wasn’t seeing things--that the Wrecker considered him a real friend, too. 

It wasn’t until he saw Blurr’s face , shocked and relieved and painfully sleepless, that Swindle knew he’d been wrong again.

Blurr didn’t consider Swindle a friend. 

He considered him _ family.  _


	13. Optimus Prime/Starscream -Choose Your Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I somehow managed to delete ch 11, sorry ya'll I'll go back and fix that. 
> 
> Pairring: OP/SS 
> 
> Warnings: Uh, don’t mess with weird ancient relics. Brief mentions of past abuse. 
> 
> Summary: The Matrix contains the knowledge of all those who have possessed it prior, a direct link to the Primes of the past as well as its creator. In times of crisis that knowledge can combine into one, and overtake the current host to aid in making an important decision.
> 
> It also has a bad habit of giving people their titles and roles once they rolled by the host. Despite being several thousand years into the war, Starscream has just now managed to meet Optimus Prime face to face.

Choose Your Party

 

* * *

 

A pulsing. Something unknown building. Optimus optic’s burned blue fire, the edges if it escaping out the sides of his face. **  
**

“Ratchet, I name you. Medic of mine, my armies, my people. Your hand will steady mine as I steady yours, your thoughts forever guiding and grounding, in ways I cannot reach alone. So I swear.” and it wasn’t just Optimus talking, but others, long past. A group of mecha long held in the positions they were, and beyond them, something…someone… more.

Ratchet’s optics were impossibly wide, his jaw loose with shock. He felt it, an ancient power coursing through him, feeling him, knowing him-

Choosing him.

All the things he had rejected, all the bullshit he thought it was, but it was beyond him, beyond what even those who believed thought.

It ended, the flames disappearing, the presence leaving until only he and the newly minted Optimus remained.

There was a very long pause.

“…What the frag. I’m  _already_ your medic!” Ratchet said, voice near a shout, but his freakout was cut short by his friend going abruptly offline and falling headfirst onto the floor.

“Fragging idiot relics!” He snarled as he dove to catch his leader.

Which really, is how it always went. From the time the Matrix was placed in him, Optimus would met someone, either a new person or one he knew, promptly zone out, and then wham-bam-boom, odd colored fire optics,  multiple voices and an eerie, ancient presence, dubbing those being spoken to as something or other.  

Prowl had taken it in stride. So had Jazz, to think on it.

Ironhide had to physically shake it off, Wheeljack pretended it never happened and the twins, well.

Being replaced as Lord High Protector was a weird, weird thing to have happen to you when technically, the prior one wasn’t dead but they did the best they could with that information.

                                                                                                                                            xXx 

 **  
**Optimus Prime had never met Starscream. Not really. He knew of him of course, had shot at him even, but met, properly? **  
**

The war hadn’t allowed for that.

Interesting now that he thought of it because despite that, the seeker held his attention. Seekers always had, and he had a fondness for their frames, but Starscream? Starscream had it the most.

Brilliant, cunning, a master opponent even if half his plans failed–but they all knew why those plans failed. How many times had Prowl cursed Starscream’s name only to bless Megatrons in the next vent because the tyrant had interfered and killed Starscream’s plan? How many times did they talk about how Starscream was this close, to a victory?

How many times had Prime admired him, his ambition and resolve, how many times had he–

Optimus cut his thoughts off. Starscream was the enemy and he was the Prime. He was for people, not for an individual, nevermind one hellbent on the ruination of their species.

 _‘Is that what he really wants, though?’_  Whispered that traitorous inner voice, the same one who whispered that he’d better make sure when he finally had Starscream in his grasp.

 _‘Better check.’_  It said smugly and begrudgingly, Optimus did.

He knew better than to ignore the voices in his head.

The seeker was injured, flight capabilities offline but wings still hitched high and proud, as Optimus finally met him for the first time.

Prowl was standing to his left, Jazz at his right, and Starscream directly in front no doubt saying something sassy when The Power within rose in him again.

It’s been awhile since he’d felt it and it took him by surprise–but at the same time it made perfect sense.

Realizations came, at about the same time his SIC and TIC picked up what was happening.

“You have been avoiding this.”  The Voice inside said, using his mouth to speak.

Jazz’s helm whipped about. “You’re _kidding_ me!–” He spat, words tumbling over Prowl’s snapped;  “ _Absolutely_  not him-!”

“I avoided nothing.” Spat Starscream but there was knowledge there. Fear, too.

“Why?”

The power pulsed, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it.

Unable to resist–as they all had been, the answer sounded dragged from Starscream’s vocalizer.

“I will not serve another like him.”

There was more than one “him’s” there and Optimus saw all of them. The damage and destruction. Starscream was not innocent, but his circumstances weren’t often of his own fault.

There was no winner in Starscream’s life, or mind.

“You are free to find your own way.” The Voice said, and it spoke truly. It also knew the outcome of this encounter though, knew which way Starscream would fall.

Starscream had felt the same drag/pull as Optimus had, his entire life. Hed spent a long time resisting, a long time fighting to be free from the mechs he had placed himself under in trust.

But those mechs were not Optimus. They were not the answer to Starscream’s calling.

Starscream was often taken for a coward, with the way he begged but a coward did not pick themselves up and try again. A coward did not go charging back to change things the second he was fixed.

Starscream was brave. In a different way than most, but no less recognizable.

“Just get it on with.” Starscream hissed and others would hear the defeat and rage, few would understand the terror lurking beneath.

Where Optimus would have paused, the voice continued, as it knew that was the seekers form of consent. Had Starscream wanted to leave he would have tried, by this point. Had he truly refused he would have nailed Optimus with the gun he’d managed to hide.

“Master of the Skys, rightful ruler of Vos,” The Voice began because it was always polite to start with ones titles even if they didn’t know they held them, “Starscream. I name you.”

Starscream shuddered, optics narrowing in anticipation of pain.

“Mate of mine, leader of half our people, you will stand equal to me as we move to end this war. Your words will pave the way, your decisions intertwined with mine. You will save our species.”


	14. Rung/Whirl-Human Soulmates AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look something that wasn't on my tumblr first! Which is amazing because this is thee most tumblrish thing I've written for a while.
> 
> I give you, a Rung/Whirl Human Soulmates trauma AU. You're welcome. 
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of abuse, gaslighting, scarring, self harm, marks, bar fights, androgynous Whirl, etc.

Oh, I see a man at the back as a matter of fact

His eyes are as red as the sun….

 

* * *

 

Rung wasn't worthy of his soulmate.

_ “You’re going to call me One from here on out. Because I am your one and only.”  _

His last boyfriend had made sure of that.

_ “This isn’t--this isn’t working out anymore.”  _

_ “ Oh? You’re trying to, what, break up with me? After all I’ve done for you?” _

So that the fact that Mark--forever clear, even over the deeply scarred piece of skin it inhabited--remained intact was something that would forever haunt him.

_ “A wrecked thing like you? Do you remember what you were even  _ like _ before I met you? Before I took you in? Do you think anyone else would provide for you--would put up with you?”  _

No one deserved to be stuck with him.

_ “Just remember that I’ll always be here, Rung. But the next time you come crawling back to me, you’d better make it worth my while to take you back.” _

Not one wanted to get thrown into the middle of a mess. Which was all Rung was.

Someone else's mess. 

He stared at his bank account--all zeros, across the board. It wasn’t that he had no money--he’d been smarter this time, had hidden some cash. It was just the fact that One had that access--that Rung had  _ given _ One that kind of access even though he knew better.

It was stupid.

This was all so, so stupid.

Yet here he was.

Rung rubbed absently at his wrist, played with the thick watch that hid his scars. He’d make it this time though.  He’d get out. 

He had to.

One expected him to break, to come crawling back, like he always had. Always did. If he took to long to do it, One would come  _ get _ him. 

And One was getting tired of his attempts.

If Rung didn’t make it on his own now, he knew he’d never get another chance to try it again. 

 

xXx

Whirl had spent most of his life watching his Mark erase itself over and over.

His soulmate didn't know him, had never met him, and already didn't want him.

Made sense, considering his life.

But the fact that it was the person he was supposedly _ destined  _ for, a person who he had never crossed paths with?

He swore up and down that he didn’t care but of course he did. 

He always fucking did.

He’d slashed through his own Mark once, in a fit of rage. Just to make them see how he felt. How it  _ looked. _

_ ‘I don’t need you either.’  _ He’d snarled at his wrist. At his soulmate.   _ ‘I don’t need anyone.’ _

A fact that remained true, to this day. 

He was softer now--not, that he’d ever admit it. Had some people in his life who cared, in their own way. Joining a biker gang isn’t supposed to be a good idea and yet, Whirl had been arrested  _ less _ since doing so. 

The Lost Light was at least a cool crew to play enforcer for. 

Which coincidentally, was his job for today. 

Blue hair lazed over one shoulder. The haircut he sported could have been considered Jessica Rabbit-esque, if one side wasn’t buzzed completely off. A leather jacket held a number of patches, most of them rude.  A blatant, black eyepatch covered one eye. Black eyeliner so winged out it might stab a guy ringed the other, mascara made the visible eyelashes long. Ripped jeans, a chained wallet and a number of piercings completed the look and Whirl eyed himself happily in the mirror. 

The fucked up hands kinda ruined it, but if he stuffed them in his pockets he could just pretend they weren’t there. 

Like--that! 

_ Ta-da! _

Scary biker!

Whirl barred his teeth in a grin, looking feral and loving it. He kissed at the mirror playfully before trotting off, down the steps of the piece of shit motel he was trashing this week.

He got several double-takes along the way. 

He didn’t bother with them. Double-takes was just a fact of Whirl’s life. 

_ ‘Like the hands and the eye and the soulmate who hates you…’ _

He didn't subscribe to one gender. Rather he changed them out like clothes, to the point where those who still knew him from his school days couldn't tell you what his supposed “real” gender was. Now he likened himself to an androgynous slab of human, a being who cast confusion in its wake and reveled in it. 

People just picked a pronoun for him and he went with whatever they decided. 

It was the easiest thing about him. 

The rest was undeniably hard.

A T-rex screeched in the late afternoon sun and Whirl dug for his phone, once again frustrated that his _ fucked up, useless fingers _ made things difficult. 

“Shut up.” He grumbled as the t-rex screeched again, announcing the presence of a text. 

“Sundown Bar, north of Burnside.” He read aloud, making his way to a blue Kawasaki Ninja.  _ His  _ blue Kawasaki Ninja. “Bring your flashlight.” He finished, the words bringing a predatory gleam to his eyes. It wasn’t often he got texts like that from Cyclonus anymore--they hadn’t really had to rough anybody up for a while.

Hadn’t needed too.

The flashlight in question was a big, old school  _ Mag Light.  _ The kind with a handle nearly as long as Whirl’s forearm. Instead of batteries it’s insides had been filled with concrete, making it a beautiful “self defense” weapon. 

The kind that got Whirl in less trouble than a baseball bat did if he got caught beating the shit out of someone with it, and was equally easy to swap out with an identical one  _ not _ filled with concrete during the confusion Whirl undoubtedly always caused. 

It wasn’t go time yet though. That wouldn’t be until things were nice and dark--which, in November, meant Whirl had roughly two hours to fuck around. 

Two hours was plenty. 

He had a few other bars to he wanted to check out. 

 

xXx

  
  


Rung wanted to pretend he didn’t know how he got here, just like he wanted to pretend he didn’t know how everything had gotten this bad. 

How things had stayed this bad. How he’d let it happen, how he could never seem to break out of it…

Well, he knew the answer to a few of those things at least. 

It was his fault, after all.

The bar was dingy. Dirty. It had a few joke-related menu items that looked like it hadn’t been updated in a solid decade and lighting so low that it made him squint and wish his glasses weren’t permanently bent. 

It’s clientele wasn’t much better. 

This was the rendezvous point, though. It had taken a lot to reach out for help. He’d been so worried he wouldn’t be taken seriously, worried that One’s sparkling reputation would tarnish whatever help Rung asked for. One had an excellent way of ruining all of Rung’s escape attempts. 

Getting thrown into a mental institution for the mandatory 72 “evaluation” only to come out and discover One now had power of attorney over him had made him a touch paranoid.

This had sounded legitimate. Someone who worked with high risk cases. Someone who had believed in him. Two weeks was all Rung had planned for and here he was nearing three--the longest he had ever been away from One.

He could only pray this wasn’t some kind of a trap.

Rung’s luck never had been good. 

The bell above the door rang twice in succession. The two people who entered went separate ways--one making a beeline for Rung, the other for the bartender. 

The first Rung recognized and even as his attention was drawn away, his heart sank. A “friend” of One’s, one who’d “helped” him before when Rung had run. 

Helped himself to the “reward” too, when One had gotten Rung back. 

Time had run out. 

Yet, he found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move from the rickety barstool. Couldn’t even look when One’s friend sat next to him, didn’t even hear his smug greeting. 

Rung wasn’t listening. All his attention was focused on the most beautiful person he’d ever seen in his life as he snarled threats at the bartender. 

His wrist burned, had been burning. With a wince Rung rubbed it--then removed the watch. 

Words were being whispered in his ear. Threats spoken in sweet tones. Rung heard it but didn’t react. Couldn’t.

Because his breath had been stolen by another thought entirely, the second his eyes laid onto his  _ glowing,  _ painful mark. 

The redhead’s eyes traveled, from his wrist to the utterly  _ gorgeous  _ person now gripping the front of the bartender’s shirt, screaming in his face. 

The bartender had begun to scream back, the bar’s falling silent as the two increased their pitch. 

“This will be easier on you if you come quietly.” One’s flunky was saying, one hand wrapping around Rung’s arm, not quite noticing--or caring--about the commotion. It was a dive bar after all.

His grip was hard enough to bruise--would bruise.

Something Rung would be blamed for.

He snapped back to himself, to his situation. Cast one wild look at his current captor.

He couldn’t fight him. He wasn’t strong enough. One kept him weak on purpose, wanted him to “maintain a figure” but Rung had always been small to begin with.

His soulmate on the other hand…

One’s friend was--finally-- interrupted as the bartender was dragged over his own bar. He proceeded to engage in a slugging match he was obviously destined to lose with the person Rung was enthralled with. They both froze  when a bottle was broken, and both had different reactions when said bottle was shown to be entirely ineffective. People were beginning to flee, bolting out multiple exit doors and One’s friend jumped to do the same, trying to drag Rung with him.  

Rung had other ideas.

He blamed his refusal on temporary insanity, later. Blamed all his actions on it, in fact. From telling One’s friend to “Fuck off. Now.” to twisting his captured arm so that his fingers could press against his Mark. 

All an act of insanity--and the best decision he’d ever made in his life. 

 

xXx

Whirl’s wrist was  _ pulsing. _

The cute redhead with the fucked up glasses was staring at him like a drowning man looked at land and it took Whirl a moment to make the connection. His wrist was on fire, but he’d been blaming that more on the nice gash Grate “Getaway” Williams had given him up to this point. 

To be fair he’d been a bit distracted to see the utterly obnoxious glow. He frowned in succession, at Getaway, the Mark, and the redhead, his unhappiness melded by a simple, unfortunate fact. 

_ Soulmate. _

Getaway groaned from where he lay defeated on the floor, the bouncer not even making an attempt to intervene. In a place like this, versus someone like Whirl, the guy probably knew better. 

Good for him.

Whirl wiped his arm mindlessly against a pant-leg, not bothering to try and do anything about the gash. The bleeding had already slowed down, was clearly gonna stop on it’s own and what was one more scar to his arm, anyway? So he left it. 

His wrist pulsed again, the guy Whirl’s eyes had locked onto clearly pressing hard against his own ( _ matching)  _ Soul Mark and Whirl was done.

Positively, fucking,  _ done.  _

“You!” He called, storming  right up to his pre-destined and the guy tugging too hard on his arm. “You owe me some _answers!”_

“Yes.” His soulmate said, but the tone wasn’t right. Whirl frowned harder, then transferred that frown to the unimportant friend the guy was with. “Scram.” He ordered. 

The guy gave him a wobbling smile. 

“Sorry.” The unimportant friend said. “We were just leaving.” He tugged harder, his fingers nearly encasing Whirl’s Soulmate's arm and a growl nearly tore itself from the biker’s throat. 

“You sure are.” Whirl agreed, one scarred ( _ destroyed _ ) hand slamming down on the bar next to the small redhead. “He isn’t.”

Because he wanted answers. He wanted to know why he wasn’t wanted. He wanted to know why his soulmate was here all of a sudden (and definitely looked like he shouldn’t be) and why the guy wasn’t running at the first sight of him. He wanted to know, and this fucker was _ in his way.  _

A pointed look caused the guy to at least drop the crushing grip on his soulmate’s arm, but then he wasn’t walking away like Whirl wanted. No, the stupid idiot was squaring up and Whirl was  _ so  _ not dealing with this tonight.

“I'm afraid I can’t let you do that.” Dude’s voice was calmer now, determined and his soulmate twisted to face him, horror dawning on his face. 

Whirl didn’t have that kind of reaction, because Whirl had already spotted the gun. A hand shot out, striking the hand bringing the semi-auto up askew. A second one curled in on itself as best it could, right before it delivered a punch dead to the offender’s throat. 

The creepy friend toppled back, gasping. The gun dropped from his hands and Whirl kicked it before advancing. A barstool was grabbed, flipped, then swung like a bat.

It cracked against a skull, dropping the guy dead to the floor. Quite possibly literally. 

“...Shit.” Whirl said, in the following silence. 

He ran a scarred, partly-functioning hand through his hair, turning his stare to the redhead, knowing he’d ruined his chances--and was surprised to find the man had moved.

_ Towards  _ him.

_ “Oof.” _ He muttered, as what had to be barely a hundred pounds of upset bowled into him. Thin arms wrapped around him like a lifeline. A face buried itself into his chest. Both actions seemed desperate, on the edge of hysteria, as though it’s owner had been given an out by God himself. 

To say this wasn’t the reaction Whirl was expecting would be the greatest understatement of the year.

“Thank you.” Whirl’s soulmate said, voice muffled by Whirl’s own shirt and what might have been tears. “ _ Thank you.”  _

“Uh.” Whirl responded, because really, _ what the fuck?  _ “Um.” 

Then the buzzing and burning and hurt barreled towards him from his Mark and Whirl closed his arms around his soulmate, bringing him close. 

Protecting him. 

The guy practically sunk into him at that, grabbing onto his jacket like a lifeline and it felt--kinda nice, even if it was weird, and different, and not at all what Whirl expected and  _ where were these feelings coming from…? _

They stayed like that for a minute; injured, barely conscious bartender on one side and what Whirl was positive was a dead guy on the other. 

That barstool had been solid wood, after all. 

Sirens made them move, finally. “Come on.” Whirl urged, as they shrieked closer, gently unhooking his soulmate’s arms from around him, to grab his hand instead. “This way.”

They ran out, to Whirl’s bike, parked at the best possible place to a fast retreat. 

“Hold onto me.” Whirl ordered, as he jumped onto his Ninja and kick-started the engine. “Do  _ not _ let go.”

“Never.” His soulmate promised, scrambling up behind him and somehow, Whirl didn’t think the guy was just talking about the bike-ride. 

But they’d figure that out later. 


	15. Optimus -Your Boss is on line 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: None
> 
> Universe: Idk pick one you like.
> 
> Summary: When Primus calls and you’re the Prime, you *always* have to answer.
> 
> Alternatively, The last thing Optimus wants to hear is that the only way to end the war is to get a date. 
> 
> Warnings: I think this ones okay!

The Matrix was an object of mystical power. A totem of Cybertron’s deity, a blessing to those it touched. Fear and awe followed it in equal waves, forcing respect no matter what side of the war one fought on. 

Few knew how it worked, fewer still how much it affected Optimus. He held a different name before it chose him-how much had it influenced the convoy’s personality. How much had been changed by Prime’s past.

No one knew.

Well. That was a lie. Optimus knew. And through him, his command staff.

But that was only because the Matrix had a bad habit of knocking him unconscious so that Primus himself could have a chat. 

“I was in the middle of something.” Optimus growls, the second he realizes whats happened. He’s long used to abruptly waking up in a space of no sight or sound. It’s difficult to explain exactly what he sees when he communicates with their God, and his mechs have long stopped asking. 

Optimus in turn, has stopped mentioning the...weirder...aspects of his conversations with the deity and the past Primes. 

Some mechs take Primus’s growing interest in Optimus’s love life poorly. Optimus can’t blame them, he’s not really taking it well either. Of course, he’s the one “standing” before Primus like a petulant child being called in early for dinner, but still.

It’s an odd conversation to have, with a billion-year war taking up most of his time.

“I thought Prime’s weren’t supposed to take a Conjux.” He’d asked, the first time this had all come up. 

“Yes well, you can blame Galina for that,” Someone called out. “Little devil convinced everyone  so they’d stop trying to sleep with her!”  

If Optimus focused he would be able to tell who it was, in the same mystical way that he knew who was here and who wasn’t. He didn’t want to focus though, and so ignored the speaker. 

“A Prime can do what he pleases in his own life.” Primus said, before the banter could turn into an argument and derail the entire conversation. “We know you grow weary of this conversation while our people die. Just remember, our pressing of this matter is tied to the war.”

“You keep saying that. You don’t say how.” He’s trying to keep his tone civil, he is. He swears. It’s just not quite working. 

“You’ll know when you encounter your sparkmate.” 

Optimus glares. No one can see him do it, but they all know he is. “So you’ve chosen someone for me?”

“No, but I am who I am, child. I know who is destined for you. You are here today because you are letting your circumstances blind you, keeping you from reaching him.”

“And what do you suggest I do? Take a day and flirt with all the Autobots?”

“Who said your intended was an Autobot?” Crowed another voice. 

“You wouldn’t.” Optimus nearly jerked back, face frowning. 

“All Cybertronians are my children, regardless of the badge they wear on their chest.” Primus answered. “How did you expect an Autobot Conjux to aid the war effort?”

“Please tell me it’s not Megatron.” Was all Optimus could think to say. “ _ Anyone _ but Megatron.”

They had a history after all. One Optimus did  _ not  _ want to delve into. 

“Of course not.” Primus said. “But close. Now go, your command staff is worried.” 

And of course he got no choice in leaving, just as he had no choice in coming. No sooner than the words were spoken than Optimus was falling, lights and sounds rushing back, shifting until they formed into Ratchet’s concerned face.

“You back with us?” He asked.

Ratchet did not believe in Primus. He did believe someone had made a machine capable of storing memories of past lives, as a sort of advanced AI, and it was those programs speaking to Optimus. He of course, had no proof, in the same way Optimus had no real, physical proof he was speaking to the god of their race, but they each believed their own versions strongly and loved each other enough not to argue about it.  Most days, anyway. 

So, usually, when Optimus awoke to Ratchet peering over him he toned things down a bit and gave an edited version of what had transpired.

Usually was not always. 

Optimus had had enough today though, between problems with the Decepticons, problems between the Ark’s crew, and problems with Primus trying to hijack his personal life. 

So when Jazz asked; “What’d they tell you boss? They’ve been pulling you out a lot recently.” Optimus answered honestly.

“Apparently, I need to date a Decepticon to end the war.” He snapped. He regretted it instantly, in the resounding silence that statement left. 


	16. Optimus-Your Boss is on line 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an idea about Autobot High Command going through Decepticon dating profiles for Optimus and here we are! This is the sequel to Your Boss Is On Line 1 
> 
> Warnings: OP gets a touch OOC at times but he knows it and it's in reaction to his situation so I thought it was warranted. (Also Red Alert, but let's be honest, Jazz using Red Alerts 3/!t3 H@x3r skillz to figure out the enemies sexual kinks is too funny to pass up.)

This was not the way Optimus wanted to spend his evening.

Or any evening, ever.

“Not Megatron, but close.” Wheeljack mused, looking at the list of pictures Prowl had projected onto the table. Each one could be tapped to display a short profile. A _dating_ profile. That Jazz had made.

They were scarily accurate and often full of more information that Optimus had ever needed, or wanted to know.

“Is this what Spec Ops does for fun?” Ironhide had asked at the start of this unpleasantness, only to quickly regret his answer when he realized just how detailed each profile was.

“Do I want to know how you managed to get everyone’s kinks?”  Wheeljack asked, whistling as he scrolled through Starscream’s profile.

Jazz had pointed to Red Alert and responded with an entirely too delighted “It was a group effort!” Which had set the exact tone for this nonsense and now, an hour in, Optimus wished desperately that he’d followed Ratchet when the mech had stormed out, upon discovering what exactly the “emergency meeting” was about.

“It’s Soundwave.” Prowl said in the present, returning Optimus to the argument that they kept circling back to.

Soundwave vs Starscream. 

Both options made Optimus’s processor spin unpleasantly.

“Close doesn’t mean high command necessarily.” Wheeljack continued, staring at the handful of other profiles displayed.

Jazz made a rude noise. “Course it does, mech. How would anybody but high command change the tide of war if they hooked up with the Boss?” His fingers flicked lazily down the various profiles, once again showing off the “compatibility ratings.” “It’s gotta be a mech the rest will follow if he defects, or makes an announcement to bid for peace.”

“Are we suggesting mechs would follow Starscream if he defected?” Wheeljack said.

“No, but they’ll follow if he’s backed by the Autobot army.” Jazz replied. Optimus would normally trust his judgement, but considering he was currently championing Starscream against Prowl’s insistence on Soundwave, he was a touch hesitant.

Sort of like how he was hesitant about this entire ordeal.

“You're gonna have to take them both on a date then.” Jazz continued, after arguing his point a bit more and getting absolutely nowhere. “S’ only option.”

“Fine.” Optimus said, just wanting this meeting to _end._ “Soundwave first then.” He knew he wasn’t getting out of this, knew he was going to have to go through with the madness. If that was the case, then no one could fault him for making his own plans.

He knew neither mech was his supposed bondmate. But Soundwave could potentially help find the actual mech and that, Optimus would take a chance on.

“Set it up, Jazz.” He commanded, and ignored the smug grin his Third shot his Second.

“Yes Sir!”

 

xXx

Optimus had a weird relationship to the Decepticons. As a figurehead and Autobot leader, he was positively despised.

As a Prime?

There was a reason Megatron had claimed he was the only one who could kill Optimus, and half the Autobot army was fairly certain it was because your average ‘Con just wasn’t comfortable doing it. Hating him certainly, but killing? Wounding, even?

Not a line many were willing to cross.

So Megatron removed that option from his army, making it a personal vendetta--which, at this point, it most certainly was. But it also allowed those who were uncomfortable hurting the Prime an out, one that was gladly taken.

The result was that, if you got certain mechs alone with him, they weren’t at all sure what they were supposed to _do._ Call for backup and send alerts and go through procedure yes, but physically, while they waited for all that to happen?

They had nothing. They did nothing.

Soundwave, surprisingly, was one of those mechs. A fact Optimus was currently taking ruthless advantage of.

“Read my mind.” Optimus demanded.

“No.” Soundwave repeated, as he had been, continuing to back away as Optimus advanced. They were going in literal circles because of it and if that wasn’t a metaphor for Optimus entire fragging life nothing would be.

“I was given a mission by Primus.” Optimus snarled, sounding rather rabid and not caring an ounce. “I know damn well you aren't the mech he wants, but you can help so-- _read. My. Mind.”_

Soundwave flinched at the name of their god, but continued moving backwards. They were running out of time--Optimus knew the telepath had called in backup the second he’d realized he’d fallen in a trap.

The refusal was softer this time, more of a whisper and a headshake. The Con’s field trembled against his and, sensing weakness, Optimus played his trump card.

When the war had begun Optimus had made two things clear to both sides. He was fighting for what was right--and that he would never use his status or duties as Prime to win the war. The Autobots and his position as its leader was separated from his position as Prime. As such, any mech, no matter their alignments, who came to him for religious reasons would be heard and honored, even if they did not join the Autobots. Religious events would still be held and given appropriate respects.

Few believed it at first and many more had tried to use it to gain an advantage against the Autobots, but all had quickly realized that in this, Optimus was _serious._

Deadly so.

He refused to kill, refused to let his own command kill on more than one occasion but for mechs who disobeyed the orders of peace when he acted as Prime? Those who disrespected the position, and made it difficult for others to let the Prime hold them?

Megatron never allowed attacks on the Prime’s team directly during recognized religious holidays for certain reasons, and Optimus’s unusual trigger finger was absolutely the leading reason.  

So when he pinned Soundwave with a stare and his field, when he spoke the words in a voice of absolute command, when he acted not as an Autobot but as a _Prime_ , Soundwave knew to listen.

“I am not asking you as the Leader of the Autobots, Soundwave.” He said, field lashing out and catching the others in it. “I am _commanding_ you as your _Prime._ Read. My. Mind.”

He didn’t need to see Soundwave’s face to know the mechs optics had blown wide. Didn’t need to feel the shock in his field as Soundwave jerked to a stop.

Just smiled in victory when the first, hesitant trendle of power licked at his processor. Soundwave was fast, impersonal. He could make the process uncomfortable, could make it _hurt_ but he did neither. Instead he found the information, the memories Optimus presented to him, took the information offered and looked only briefly beyond it to ensure it truly wasn’t connected to any kind of Autobot war effort.

The mech withdrew as gently as he entered, shuddering as he pulled his mind back from his Prime’s.

They stared each other down for a moment before the carrier bowed his head.

“Soundwave: Understands.” He said softly. “Will help.”

“Good.” Optimus said, relief in his voice. “Thank you.”

Finally, _maybe,_ they could actually go somewhere with this.

“It’s not Starscream.” He added, before he could forget.

“Acknowledged.” Soundwave said and, despite the fact that he’d withdrawn entirely, Optimus got the oddest impression the mech agreed.

“Thank you.” He repeated, then sent the coordinates to a small, unclaimed energon reserve over an open channel. “Take care of yourself and your own.” He said formally, knowing Soundwave would understand that the reserve was meant as a token of gratitude--and that the Autobots would not harm anyone who took from it.

Not of course, that that meant Soundwave believed that, but they’d gotten this far and Optimus knew Megatron was starving half his crew.

He turned and walked out of the clearing he’d cornered the mech in. Soundwave watched him go, both knowing Optimus was safe turning his back to him.

They both left with trendles of hope that they had a way for this fragging war to end, even if Soundwave was rather shaky about it.

 

xXx

“It’s not him.” Optimus announced to the room, eliciting a response of half groans and half smug smirks. “But he’s going to help.”

“Is it wise to trust him?” Prowl asked, because he’d long ago mastered the ability to be disappointed, frustrated and annoyed without letting it show.

“No, but we don’t have any other choice.”

“Well.” Ironhide sighed through his vents, staring at the profiles once again projected on the table. “If it’s not Soundwave or Starscream--" Because Optimus had shot Starscream down so hard, o _h yes he had_ \--"--then who is it?”

“I don’t know.” Optimus said, seating down at the head of the table with his own sigh.

Something told him he didn’t really _want_ to know, either.

 

xXx

“Soundwave sent his options.” Jazz announced, a day later.

“Already?” Ironhide said, surprised. “That mech is scary efficient.”

“He is.” Prowl agreed, then turned slightly to eye his Prime. “Are you certain it’s not--”

 _“Yes.”_ Optimus said and whoops, was he snarling again? He needed to stop doing that, it was out of character.

“Thundercracker is his first option.” Jazz read, displaying the profile Soundwave had created and Red Alert picked clean to insure it was safe.

“Point of stability for the army, Second in command of the seekers.” Jazz continued, looking at Soundwave’s reasoning.

“Has shown interest in defecting?” Wheeljack interrupted, twisting to face Jazz. “Is that true?”

The saboteur nodded, scrolling through the rest of the profile as he did so. “Yeah. Hasn’t done much about it though.”

“Doesn’t he hate grounders?” Ironhide asked, thinking back on the numerous insults the seeker had hurled at his ground-troops (particularly, the Twins.) More than one had been some kind of slur.

“That’s listed as the main weakness.” Prowl pointed out, arms crossed thoughtfully. “Clearly Soundwave thinks he could overcome that, though.”

“I dunno, most of the ‘Con’s have the fliers.” Wheeljack said, and Prime interrupted before that could devolve into its own argument.

“Next option.”

“Onslaught?” Ironhide read off, as the profiles switched out. “You’re _kidding_ me.”

“Well respected within the Decepticon army, former Commander, known and trusted, dislikes Megatron and outspoken about it.” Prowl read this time, as the profile rolled past.

“Weakness; Bruticus and loyalty programming.”

“He’s out.” Wheeljack said, staring at the picture of the mech.

“Indeed.” Optimus sighed. No doubt Soundwave thought the Matrix--and possibly Ratchet--could overcome the loyalty programming but the gestalt? There was no way they were going to be able to separate him, and if they didn’t, that meant he came as a package deal.

Considering that package deal contained Vortex, Onslaught was _absolutely_ out.

He didn’t have to ask for the profile after that. An all too familiar gold seeker popped up, and Prowl didn’t even get out his name before Optimus had veto’d him.

“No.” He said, to raised optic ridges around the table.

“Sunstorm’s devoted to Primus, and is fairly high up the Decepticon command chain on Cybertron.” Prowl said, frowning as Optimus shook his head. “His only weakness is that he doesn’t quite have the pull we’d want to put an end to the war.”

“I am well aware of Sunstorm’s devotion.” He said with a shudder. Sunstorm was one of the few who had no problems separating his titles, and contacted Optimus so often over the designated comm line that the Autobot leader would’ve thought he was trying to pull something, if it weren’t _for_ that devotion. “We would not get along as bondmates.”  Another shudder.

“Any other options?” He asked, hopefully.  ‘ _Please let there be other options.’_

“One, boss.” Jazz said. He looked up, field suddenly smug. “It’s got an apology in front of it though.”

“An apology?” He repeated, frowning. Who would Soundwave feel the need to apologize for sending? Unless….

Optimus sat up, suddenly wary, and found he had every reason to be when Starscream’s faceplates graced the center of the table.

“No.” He didn’t moan it, he didn’t, no one heard him say it like that, nope.

“His profile’s almost identical to ours.” Jazz said, field getting smugger by the second. “Sorry boss.”

“It would be worth considering him for that alone.” Prowl said, as he looked through the many “strengths” Soundwave had listed, strengths which Jazz and Red Alert had listed themselves. The weaknesses were equal in length, but each was countered by a strength, and the sheer fact that, if it weren’t for Megatron, the seeker’s actions would have ended the war long before now. It was only the tyrants ego and narcissism that had stopped Starscream--and, as a result, allowed the Autobots room to come out on top. Nevermind that he was outspoken about saving Cybertron and their species, and was the main reason The nemesis had functional energon-makers at all.

Starscream was well versed in the problems they faced, had the political and intellectual smarts to help fix them,  held the title of Second in Command honorably by Decepticon means, and would be respected if backed by someone who wasn’t an abusive egomaniac.

“Sorry kid, I’m with them.” Ironhide said, hand on his chin. “Screamer’s a nightmare, but he’s the nightmare that fits the best.”

“Are we agreed then?” Red Alert asked tentatively, all optics turning to their leader.

Optimus put his head in his hands. “Yes.” He said a moment later, defeated.

Somewhere, above him, a group of past Primes were laughing.


	17. Optimus-Your Boss is on line 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insecuriosity is to blame for this chapter. Take yo' credit! ; P 
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings: Optimus is still a touch OOC, but ya know. It's a weird situation for everyone. Jazz actually goes a little OOC for a quick sec but I like to think of it as less OOC and more he was completely and totally caught off guard and gave an honest reaction, because well, when has he ever been caught off guard? Never haha.

 

The Matrix wasn’t a one way telephone.

The problem is, it wasn’t a normal telephone either. Or a comm link, or a text, or a holovid, or anything remotely in the scope of what most of the Autobot army understands. You could send something all you wanted. Get through even! But it didn’t mean you got to the person you were trying to reach.

In Optimus’s case specifically, he tended to get the busy signal, or what felt like some sort of energy-feelings-weird sparkly lights- related run around.

The humans though?

They got it.

He thinks it’s the real reason he likes them so much.

“Sounds like trying to call my cable company.” One had told Optimus once, after an innocent question involving Optimus’s role as “Space Jesus” (another concept they had surprised him with, in their way of not only having a similarish religion(s), but understanding the underlying issues of his position as the Matrix Bearer near-instantly.)  had gone awry. “You gotta call during certain business hours that always change; the number you called is always wrong so they have to transfer you, and then you get disconnected after thirty minutes of being on hold.” The man had nodded, posture indicating the exact frustration Optimus himself was experiencing at the time. “Totally relatable.”

Ironhide, who’d been witness to this particular discussion, looked as though he’d taken a wrong turn and ended up at a ‘Con base.  Optimus in turn had taken one look at him and resolved this was forever going to be something his own mechs just weren’t going to understand.

It was between himself and Primus, apparently. (Along with the humans and every single former Prime, ever, but who was he to count heads?)

So, upon reflecting and meditating on the decision of Starscream as his Conjux, he had finally removed himself from his concerned, over-reactive officers and retired to his room, ready to talk to Primus about it all.

The fact that the mediating might have been less sitting and more shooting blindly wasn’t his problem. Nor was the fact that he’d destroyed all 100 levels of Teletraan 1’s combat simulator , (and nearly, his TIC. Entirely Jazz’s fault, the mech knew better than to try and talk sense into a someone who was several freakouts deep and had instant access to a giant axe.) in less than two hours.

“I have some complaints.” Optimus said, when he was--finally!--pulled from his body and into the presence of his God (and whatever former Primes had designed to make fun of him this time)

“You haven’t even met him yet!”  Somebody yelled, correctly guessing what his complaints where about.

Optimus ignored him.

“How am I supposed to trust Starscream?” He asked instead, knowing if he didn’t start talking now someone else would. “How do I get him to trust me? How do I even approach him? As far as I know he isn’t even religious.”

“Starscream knows his place in this.” Is the ominous answer. “He understands what is being asked of him.”

“What, did you send him  a zip file?” Sarcasm is one of those things that Optimus never truly got the hang of and didn’t always like to use, but well it was be sarcastic or do something drastic and one was a lot more manageable to pull off in this weird pocket of...wherever he was.

Primus gave the impression of a smile. Though Optimus can’t see anyone here, he was always been able to envision that smile with crystal clarity, simply because it was the kind Optimus spent years doing himself. A gentle slope of the mouth topped by kind optics always makes whatever follows more impactful, meaningful.

He doesn’t get a chance to brace himself about whatever his God is choosing to reveal.

“No I spoke to him. Same as I speak to you.” Primus said. The former Prime’s reactions range greatly from quiet smiles to boisterous laughter at Optimus’s thunderstruck reaction, optics blown wide and mouth ajar.

“Your serious.” He manages to say. when he’s recovered himself. “You brought Starscream _here?”_

An impression of a shrug.

“It was needed.”

“He was willing to go along with this?” That is honestly more surprising than Primus pulling Starscream up here. Optimus didn’t think the God could do that--or wanted to, for whatever reason.

He’s missing something, about Starscream and Primus. He knows he is because he can feel it, in the same mystical way he can feel Primus is totally not going to tell him whatsoever.

It’s exactly this kind of bullshit that had made him go on a rampage earlier.

“He will do his best.”

Another impression made its way to Optimus at that--one that made him stop and consider things for a moment.

Primus was trusting Starscream with him.

“He has reasons to be frightened. Understand that.” Primus added, for once expanding on an impression when he almost never did. The warning wasn’t threatening. It was sad. Like Primus had argued many times with Starscream and had come away unable to solve whatever was wrong.

Like he thought Optimus might be a last ditch effort to fix it.

Things had _never_ felt like that before and suddenly, Optimus felt a lot less annoyed and a lot more humble. He had known things had been dragged out past what their God wanted for them, in the same way he knew whatever rules Primus abided by wouldn’t let him directly interfere. This was the most information he had given in the better part of a millennia, and the reason for that could very well be desperation.

They were flirting with the extinction of Cybertronians as a whole, after all.

“Alright.” Optimus said after a long, considering moment. “I just wish this plan did not hinge on the two of us alone.”

A stupid sentiment. The kind he tried not to make up here, but it couldn’t be helped. The thought was strong enough that everyone in the “room” not doubt got wind of it anyway, in that stupid way he got impressions of Primus (and some of the Primes, when they allowed it.)

“Who said you two where doing this alone?” That’s from a former Prime, the tone teasing.

“One relationship is not enough to hinge true peace on.” Primus’s voice was also teasing, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore. Not when Optimus realized they were _serious._

The need to take it back, demand others were left out of this warred with his own stark relief for a moment, before Optimus decided, as he had always decided, to trust in the Prime. Even if he did it cursing and snarling the entire way.

Technically speaking, his God hadn’t failed him yet.

Fully on board, he failed utterly to hide his own smile.” Names.” He demanded, nearly sticking his hand out like he was a sparkling asking for treats. “Give me names.”

“In due time.” Primus said mysteriously. The feeling of him and the former Primes began to fade. A dropping, descending feeling took its place, the kind Optimus felt when he was the one to call up the Prime instead of the Prime calling him. Just like hanging up the phone.

It was slightly ruined when Galina bellowed “But ask Jazz just what he thinks he’s doing with Soundwave!” right before he woke up.

xXx

The Autobots had given him plenty of space after yesterday's outburst (Referred to as the “Off with his Headcident” when spoken of out of his own audio range, a fact Optimus pretended his didn’t know only if only for the fact that it made everyone feel a lot better about their infallible Prime finally snapping.)  but apparently it was a luxury that could only last for the night. Within an hour of waking the next day, he found himself (carefully) rounded back up into the command room and once again grilled on how they were going to “woo” Starscream.

Prowl had a look in his optics that said he was determined to make headway when they’d begun. Optimus had known better than to fight it. Counted on it even, considering he himself felt rather out of touch with reality.

If there was one thing he believed it was that others could always replace him. Prowl helped solidify that idea, a forever annoyed stone cast in a changing sea.

 _‘Pits do you need to get a grip.’_ Optimus thought immediately after that, frown slashing down his face under his mask. _‘You sound like Megatron.’_ He redoubled his efforts to focus, trying to actually pay attention to the majority of his highly trained officers debate about the perfect first date.

Jazz, having apparently recovered well from his Prime trying to behead him and clearly holding no ill will, had been trying to get Optimus’s own opinions on that matter for the last twenty minutes.

“He’s your _intended,_ boss.” Jazz was saying, annoyed as half his command staff was with their Prime shooting down all their glorious little ideas. “You get a say in how you court him.”

Unspoken was that Optimus himself should be doing most the planning, something Prowl was adamantly against.

Optimus grinned. He wasn’t a political figurehead for nothing. He knew the perfect opening when he heard it.

“Whatever you’re doing to Soundwave seems to be working, why don’t I just copy you?”

Jazz froze, stunned.

Everyone froze with him, silence descending on the room.

Ironhide broke it. “You did get a hold of Soundwave awful fast.” He said slowly, as though carefully piecing something together.

Red Alert frowned, leaning over the table now to get a better look at Jazz. “Of course, they are in constant contact. Jazz said they have to be, with how close everything is on Earth.”  They all know he means with how Spec Ops works, with how low their species count is, the size of the planet they are on, and how Jazz and Soundwave both maintain very close and protective ties to their current spies, but in the context of this conversation? With how Jazz was reacting?

It was damning.

Optimus lounged back against his chair, stupidly pleased that all the attention was off himself for once. Too much of it had been hyper-focused on him the last few days, and a majority of that focus had come from Jazz himself. So Optimus was more than content to let him squirm for a minute.

Maybe, if he was feeling particularly vengeful, for two minutes.  

“What exactly is your reasoning for being in constant contact with Soundwave?” Prowl said, the question more of a command.

“Um.” Jazz said, off-guard, and not willing to lie when it appeared his Prime knew exactly why he was in contact with Soundwave.  “For the good of the war?”

Prowls optics drill holes into Jazz’s, forcing the TIC to look at him instead of desperately at their Prime. “Explain.”

“I---ah. Was. Experimenting?” The answer was so unlike Jazz that it brought Optimus out of his smug superiority, and back into something resembling his normal, protective personality.

“You were committing treason for an _experiment?_ ” Prowl’s voice was growing colder by the second, something that Optimus didn’t intend and couldn’t allow.

Normally a gentle reprimand and a redirect would work but hey. He was already screwing with everyone, why not poke fun at his valued second too?

“No, he’s just making sure I’m not doing it alone.” Optimus said, and then has to smother the laughter in his field when Prowl’s face slackens in shock. “I thought it was rather kind of him.”

“Are we actually saying Jazz and Soundwave have been _flirting_?” Wheeljack asked, confused face making its way to look at everyone ‘round the table. “Is that seriously what’s happening right now?”

“I was just puttin’ out feelers.” Jazz says with a shrug, body hunching ever so slightly and whoops, Optimus didn’t mean to make him feel trapped either. “Thought with the Prime doing it it would be a good time to...” A small, if carefully considered pause, “-make some intentions clear.”

And now Optimus just felt bad. _‘Good job.’_ He thought to himself. _‘That absolutely did not go how you wanted it to.’_

Mostly because he’d been less focused on how it would go and more focused enacting what he’d thought would’ve been a harmless revenge plot. No excuse for it though, now he had to fix it.

Before Prowl went for Jazz’s throat.

“Well, let me be the first to congratulate you for it.” Optimus said, pushing cheer and laughter and the harmless, playful intentions he now had to force in his field, extending it so it could be felt around the table.

Confused glances is what he gets back, but it’s up to Jazz to ask the obvious, since he’s the one on the hotplate.

“Congratulate me for treason?” He asked, guessing wearily.

Optimus beams at him and pretends it’s not faked whatsoever in an effort to get calm his command staff.

“For being the second mech chosen by Primus for this mission.” He says cheerfully. “You’re dead on target too, Soundwave is your Conjux.”

Which he was. Optimus had sensed it the moment he’d awoken. Soundwave was intended for Jazz. Just as several of his other bots--in all ranks and jobs--were intended for certain Cons. Ones he couldn’t sense yet but would be revealed in due time.

“I don’t know if Soundwave's gonna buy that.” Is all Jazz can think to say.

“I can contact him for you if you like.” Optimus is still smiling. It’s turned into something real, with the reminder that he’s not alone in this anymore. “I’ll be glad to clear up any misconceptions.”

“No, no.” Jazz said, thoroughly embarrassed. “I uh, got this.”

Between this and the accidental almost-beheading, Optimus owes his TIC a lot. He knew it, and knew he was going to have to both apologize and thank Jazz.

But only after he suggested a double date, purely to spite some of the date ideas Jazz had lobbed his way.

“Will there be more of us?” Red Alert asked, horrified at the idea of being attached to a ‘Con and even though Optimus knew better, knew he should regain control and stop acting like a petulant sparkling before he made things worse,  he can’t resist one last jab.

“Of course.” He said. He waited until all optics are once again on him before he cut the most obvious look in existence over to his CMO. “Ratchet, for example.”

“Fuck you, Drift defected.” Is the immediate reply followed by a quiet curse and shocked silence.

 _“Drift?”_ Red Alert yelped, growing more alarmed by the second. “As in, formerly Deadlock? That Drift!?”

Even Jazz is looking askew at that one, but wisely kept  his mouth shut after being called out himself.

“You baited me into that.” Ratchet growled, and Optimus can’t hold back the chuckles at the menace in his CMO’s  field. Especially considering this was the first meeting he’d attended since this mess had started.

“Sorry old friend.” He said, with an apologetic shrug that Ratchet does not remotely buy. The medics optics narrow and holy hell, is Optimus gonna be in for it later. But at least, for the moment, it was worth it.  

For a moment, this all was worth it.

 _‘I’m not alone.’_ He thought and then has to sigh, because that was of course, the issue all along. He was being made out to be the Martyr. The Massiah. The one who had to sacrifice absolutely everything just to keep everyone else going.

Whatever is intended for them, they’ll have each other to lean on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then Optimus goes on to threaten his entire army by telling them if they don’t behave he’ll have Primus stick them with a Con. This is most effective on the Twins, and has only backfired twice so far. At this point I am clearly playing more in this AU then I meant to, so if anyone has some suggestions for Con/Bot pairrings, throw em this way!


	18. Optimus-If Your Boss Had Sent An Email

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Steena for talking me through this idea! I might return to it, if I can come up with more to go from here. 
> 
> This prompt would be if Optimus had in fact, been paired with Onslaught instead of Starscream. 
> 
> Warnings: Onslaught gets knocked out, mentions of slave coding, and mentions of, well, Vortex.

Onslaught knew what a trap was. 

What he didn’t need was the blow to his ego when the Autobot’s successfully got him in one. 

“Where all the chains really necessary?” He asked, disapproval dripping off every word. He was a general, always had been, always would be and he would act like one even if he was tied six different ways (two of which would’ve impressed Vortex.) 

“Yes.” 

Onslaught didn’t know who said it. Didn’t particularly care. His team already knew he was in trouble. Had already been dispatched to his location--something he knew the Autobots knew. He could write off a slip-up like this for a lower grunt or a stupider group of mechs but Jazz and Prowl had been apart of this. Were standing to either side of him in fact, with twin looks of disapproval. 

They knew his ties to his gestalt. 

They knew everything.

It made the fact that they were all clearly waiting for something more than a little disturbing. 

“Chains? Really?” Said a voice and Onslaught was tempted to make a noise of agreement--until the speaker stepped out from the treeline.

Optimus Prime.

_ Frag. _

The mech approached with more than a little disdain, stopping before Onslaught with his hands on his hips. Never one to like looking up at people while ( _ \--particularly not now, after being forced by-- no, he know better than to go there.) _ but having more than enough practice, Onslaught kept his face blank. 

“I have a comm you know.” Onslaught said, as the Prime continued to glare down at him.

“I’m aware.” Was the answer. Followed by a dramatically loud sigh that shook the whole mechs frame. Onslaught would have made a snide remark, but that was before.

These days he knew better than to taunt anyone who had started and  _ still led  _ an army.

“For the record,” Prime said, “I’m sorry about this.”

Onslaught didn’t get a chance to make a comment, as his face was too busy catching the Prime’s fist. 

 

xXx

A number of extremely concerning alerts woke him up. 

The Autobots having destroyed the loyalty coding was of course, the main one. He’d lived with it for so long it’s absence had caused a number of subroutines to panic and he spent a good hour removing, rewriting, and generally re-doing half his own processor just to get to a point of functionality. 

The rest of the time was spent making sure the coding was truly gone. That it wasn’t hidden, or in stasis, in otherwise placed to trap him. 

He ran through six different curses and two death threats against everyone he knew before being convinced--and even then, felt a further desire to continue “testing.” 

Onslaught was in the middle of a truly impressive rant against Megatron when an Autobot came to fetch him.

“You didn’t replace it.” He said, after being silently lead into a room with the Prime. He didn’t say what. Didn’t need too. 

“Of course not.” Optimus responded, as though offended by the mere idea, “Loyalty coding is horrific.”

“You believe Primus has destined me,” A finger pointed to his own chassis, “to become your mate?” The finger spun to Optimus’s.

“It’s less of a belief and more of an unfortunate reality." 

“What makes you think I’m going to go along with this?” It was dumb to say, but then he hadn’t really had freedom to think for the past few years. It was getting to him abit. 

“If I know one thing about Primus it’s that running from whatever inane plans he has just makes things worse.” Prime deadpanned, in a way that was very un-Primelike. “But you’re welcome to try it.” 

Onslaught did. 

He left with a sneer and several insults (nothing bad enough to get anyone to shoot him of course, but enough to make several people frown.) 

He was back two days later with his entire gestalt in tow.

 

xXx

Onslaught was an enigma. Blast Off a stuck up snob, Vortex a psychopath who kept making awkward suggestions about getting whipped for being a "bad bot" and Swindle…was Swindle.

Brawl though, was tolerable. Fun even, at times. 

Like right now, when he was happily shooting things with Optimus down at the Autobot’s range.

“This is a duck’s foot pistol!” Brawl told him, showing off a gun that looked like what might happen if Wheeljack drunkenly tried to reinvent a human handheld. “Guess what they used it for?” 

“Shooting everything in a room?” Optimus guessed and couldn’t hold back his smile when Brawl nodded enthusiastically. 

“I don’t think I want to know where you got a mech sized one.” Optimus added as Brawl shot the thing and four bullets went flying every which way. 

“Nah probably not.” The mech agreed, before holding the contraption out to him. “Want to try?”

Optimus took it. 

He wasn’t sure if courting the head of a gestalt meant he had to court the rest of them as well, but if it did then at least it was going okay with one person.

He sighted down the gun, realized how dumb that was, sighed and fired. Brawl whooped when he managed to hit two different targets at the same time--Optimus allowed him another smile.

At least _someone_ was happy here.

Maybe things would turn out for the better later but in the meantime, well.

No one was going to blame him for telling Primus he was changing alliances and going off to worship Unicron. 


	19. Whirl/Cyclonus/Tailgate--Stretch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Whirl/Cyclonus/Tailgate
> 
> Universe: IDW 
> 
> Warnings: NSFW, valve play, ass (aft?) play--I don't usually swing for that with TF's but OwlPhallacies got me there haha, vibrators, Dom/sub dynamics, plugs, sub games, orgasm denial, stretching, annnnd teasing. As always if I missed one, throw me a line!

Whirl checked and double checked the message again. 

Just you know. In case he’d read it wrong. It said Room B 234 the last fourteen times he’d checked it but it could change. Messages totally did that sometimes!

The fact he was alone in a room with nothing in it besides a projector and a very active vibrator stuck up his valve had nothing else to do with it. Nope. Not at all!

His plating rippled again as the vibrator abruptly kicked into a higher drive, forcing Whirl to cut off a moan before it ever had the chance to get out of his vocalizer. He had circled the room twice and now leaned against the wall, next to the door he walked through. The attack on his valve made that lean a little more slanted, especially once Whirl tipped his helm so that the back of it hit the wall. 

Claws clicked open and closed. 

_ ‘You are not allowed to overload.’  _ His Dom had told him, with an all too teasing smile and Primus, Whirl knew better than to disobey but his hips were practically moving of their own accord here!

At least he wasn’t humping the wall.

….yet.

One claw hit it instead as Whirl fought to control himself. The vibe abruptly cut off, stilling within him and he couldn’t help the gasp that burst out at that. Couldn’t help folding over either, chasing the orgasm he couldn’t have--only to have to straighten as the door slide open.

“Man why’d Tailgate want to have movie night down here?” Swerve’s voice drifted through, seconds before the minibot himself did. 

Rewind followed on his heels, his shrug lost in the pile of crap in carried.

“Dunno.” He said, half carrying half staggering towards the center of the room.

Whirl would’ve offered to help. Totally would’ve. Just swept the entire pile of stuff and the minibot too, all up in his manly arms! 

If he hadn’t been trying to regain the use of both his vocalizer and his legs.

Swerve trotted to the center of the room, finding the projection device and immediately fiddling with it. Rewind dropped the pile next to him, and the two made quick work  of hooking a number of Primus knew what together. They chatted easily as they went, giving Whirl enough time to recover.

“Primus Whirl!” Swerve yelped, nearly falling over as he finally spotted the ‘Copter. “Why do you have to Batman on us like that!?” 

“Because I am the night.” Whirl croaked, voice not sounding remotely right.

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t recovered as he thought. Who cared! He didn’t!

“What are you doing?” He asked, to cover for it, as he stalked over to the two minibots. 

“Setting up. We picked up this super neat human game system at the last port and we wanted to try it out tonight before the movie!” 

“Cool, cool.” Whirl said, only to stiffen as the blasted vibrator re-started. “I’ll just uh, I’ll just--”

“Help us set up all the pillows!” A cheerful voice said, and all three mechs turned to watch a giant pillow walk through the door. 

Upon further inspection, Whirl realized it was actually multiple pillows, and they looked two seconds from flying everywhere. Vibrator or not, he knew that voice and he hustled over quickly to relieve his Dom from the mountain of pillows he was relocating. 

He was rewarded with the blinding impression of a smile, once he grabbed enough to unearth Tailgate’s face. 

Cyclonus was quick to follow, trailed by the remaining regulars of Movie Night. Whirl paid no attention to them, though he allowed himself a quick glance over at Cyclonus. The mech was the walking definition of a brick wall, but Whirl knew him enough by now to see the signs.

Stiff backstrut, turning rather than overstepping, yup.

Whirl wasn’t the only one with a “problem” tonight.

Cyclonus optics caught his, the purple mech giving him the same once over. Whirl offered him a slight nod and would’ve made a comment about it being returned--only to be interrupted by something rather demanding in his valve.

Judging by the slight wince Cyclonus had made, so had he.

Whirl dumped the rest of the pillows on the floor so he could ghost to his Dom’s side as soon as possible. Tailgate, unfortunately, was caught up in a discussion over which stupid human video game they were going to play first, and was happily arguing the merits of his chosen one over the one Swerve had decided to champion.

Which meant he--and Cyclonus--were completely and utterly ignored, as they stood at their Dom’s back.

Finally, a glance was sent their way, Tailgate’s features schooled into surprise. “No need to hover guys! Go make yourselves uncomfortable!” He said. 

They did, good mechs that they were.

The way Cyclonus lounged on the ground immediately told Whirl whatever was affecting the jet wasn’t in his valve.  Not that surprised him anyway, the idiot was a slut for anal play, but still. It was much more uncomfortable to sit through several hours of that then it was valve play.

Which, looking back, might explain why he had a vibrator all up in there right now instead of a normal plug.

Especially if Cyclonus was stretching himself and fucking Primus  _ shit, _ Tailgate was going to go hard as fuck on him all night! Just to make things fair!

Whirl pouted, or rather tried to. He shuffled about on the floor, trying to get comfortable and knowing it was futile. 

Another ten minutes, and finally, things had been decided. Whirl and Cyclonus sat next to each other, with Tailgate trotting over to plop down between them. One arm went to rest on each of their legs, his head propped up by a pillow he’d jammed behind him. 

Another thirty and Whirl was finally getting the hang of things. The vibrator had rotated through a couple different settings, and though he knew Tiny could control it, it hadn’t deviated from a pattern yet. Clearly it’d been set to test his control, building up an orgasm only to deny it, and while fucking torturous, it wasn’t anything Whirl was unused to. 

If anything, he thought smugly, the longer he went the more affected he was.

Cyclonus had remained rock solid until roughly an hour and a half in, where the twitching became noticeable. Whirl vaguely wondered if his plug vibrated, or if it was one of Brainstorm’s nasty new toys that slowly stretched out. He knew his Dom had picked up a few, at least one being custom ordered.

Brainstorm, glitch that he was, refused to say what who it was for or what it did. He just chuckled and tutted; “Patience!” and then played completely and utterly dirty, by distracting Whirl with guns.

It was all good now though, if Cyclonus got the toy. Because that meant Whirl was winning. He was the least effected, he was the goodest boy! 

Which of course, was when things changed.

He didn’t know how Tailgate did that, but the ‘Copter swore some of those stupid powers Tailgate had involved telepathy. The minibot always knew when he was getting cocky. Always! Even if he didn’t say anything, or was across a room! It was uncanny and in this particular instance downright mean. 

Mean, because the vibrator suddenly stiffened, giving one last hard shake, before squirting fluid in his valve. 

Whirl coughed to hid his gasp, his whole frame shuddering with the sensation. It wasn’t your average amount of “transfluid” either. Nope he got a larger amount, that suddenly explain a whole lot about the shape of the toy, and  _ fuck,  _ this thing was pumping him full. 

The “vibrator” shuddered once, twice, then went back to the start of the pattern it had been repeating. The liquid inside him abruptly raised the stakes, with it unable to escape his valve and for a moment Whirl ducked his helm, overcome and unable to hide it. 

A gentle pat was given to his thigh, and he glanced over to finding his Dom staring at him.

One commed safe word check later and Whirl got was a cheeky thumbs up before Tailgate went back to the movie. 

Next to him Cyclonus hands reached out, laying over a claw. Whirl looked to him, found a grim look of sympathy was being passed his way. 

Whirl turned his claw up, closing it gently around Cyclonus;s hand. Cyclonus followed suite, their closed fingers hidden behind Tailgate. 

These two were gonna kill him, Whirl thought with a shudder, but frag was he gonna enjoy it!


End file.
